Little Boy Frollo
by villains-doitbetter
Summary: A collection of tales on the childhood of Judge Claude Frollo. Who is this gypsy girl he has befriended? What was his home life like? How did he become the man he came to be? T for some violence, abuse, etc. Reviews appreciated! (Artwork credit to BW-Babe)
1. Young Claude

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything, property of Disney and Victor Hugo, blah blah blah...**

It was late in the day in Paris as its citizens were waiting for it to draw to a close. A grand looking building stood gazing at the Palace of Justice as its doors flew open and dozens of boys, all of noble birth, piled out as the school day had concluded. They all walked away, chatting and laughing as they made their way home.

However, one boy did not have this leisure; he stopped outside the doors, looked behind and around him then took off in a sprint. Not long afterwards, a trio of bigger and taller boys headed in the same direction after him.

The boy being chased was about nine or ten years old, very skinny and short compared to the boys chasing him. He had shoulder-length black hair with short bangs that hung to his forehead; very thin, distinctive lips; dark, gray eyes; and a small bend in his nose, making it aquiline.

After shaking the three off his trail, the boy headed down an alley and crouched behind some discarded crates. Trying to catch his breath and clinging to the dozen or so papers and a thick book at hand, he lay in hiding for a few moments before deciding that the coast was clear. Heading back down the alley, all seemed well until he found himself pinned to the ground the next moment.

"Martin, I got him!" called the boy. The other two appeared and ran towards them, both smiling wickedly.

"Nice work Dominique," said a pudgy blond-haired boy. He picked the fallen papers and handed a few to the tall third boy.

"Don't!" cried the small boy, still locked to the ground. "I need those for class!"

"Oh, don't worry, Claude. You'll get them back…as soon as we're done with them!" Martin remarked, giving a satisfied chuckle. "Come on, Jacques. Leave him there, Dominique." With this, the boy released Claude and joined his friends as they turned to walk way.

Claude picked himself off the ground and muttered, "You'll get yours."

Martin stopped and turned to face him. "What was that?"

Claude himself was shocked at this act of defiance and stood there, unable to respond. Before he could though, he found his arms locked and his body pushed up against a wall. Martin landed a hard punch to the boy's stomach, followed by another, then another.

Claude could not find the strength to scream out in pain, feeling the wind being knocked out of him with every blow, causing his face to turn a feverish red. His scrawny arms he felt being bruised by the immense grip by Dominique and Jacques. He just wanted the pain to stop.

Martin eventually tired himself out and ordered the two to release Claude, throwing him hard against the cobblestone pavement. They walked away laughing triumphantly and exchanging remarks:

"He doesn't put up much of a fight, does he?"

"What a little girl!"

"Maybe we should just call him Claudette!"

Claude was on his knees, hunched over, holding his stomach while he coughed and gasped for air. He pushed himself up and rested against the wall to see the damage done today.

He examined the numerous cuts and bruises on his arms and traced one over his cheek. Looking at his shirt, Claude realized that it had been torn during the scuffle. _Oh, no_, he thought worriedly. He knew his father would be less than pleased at this. He turned his attention to his schoolbook, which had been carelessly thrown into a nearby puddle of water.

Claude walked over to fish it out. He studied it and saw that all legible text was now smeared from the water. _Great_, he thought, _now another thing to worry about. _

He slunk down against the wall and buried his face in his hands, thinking about the impending doom that lay ahead once he arrived home. Silently, he began to weep, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Not long after, a young girl walked down the street before stopping to see what a young boy was doing sitting in an alley by himself.

She looked about the same age, dark tanned skin, with an orange scarf tied around her head, gold bracelets dangling on her wrists, and carrying a satchel…A gypsy girl.

She approached Claude. "Excuse me," she said, "Are you alright?"

Claude looked up surprised and wiped away his tears. "Yes," he said dryly. "I'm just fine."

She noticed the cuts on his face and arms. "You need help," she concluded. "Come with me." Offering her hand to him, she helped him to his feet. He grabbed his destroyed book and followed her as she led him out of the alley and down the street.

The girl led Claude all the way the Seine where she ordered him to sit down. From her satchel she pulled out a white rag. Dipping it in the water then wringing it out, she brought it to his face and began to clean his wounds. She bandaged a deep cut on his arm and finished.

"There," she said. "All done."

"Thank you." Claude said lowly, still looking very down.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I appreciate what you've done, but my father is still going to kill me over this," he showed her the long rip in his shirt.

She looked at it and said, "I'll fix that." She pulled out a needle and some thread from her bag and began stitching.

"By the way," Claude began, "What's your name?"

Her bright brown eyes gleamed at him for a moment and responded, "Celeste."

He smiled at her and said, "I'm Claude. Claude Frollo."

"Nice to meet you then, Claude. Now, why is your father going to 'kill you' over a tear in your shirt?"

Claude took a deep breath and explained, "Because he says he hates buying me more clothes every time I ruin some in a fight."

"What were you fighting about?" she asked, still sewing.

"These boys like to pick on me because they're bigger than me and I am the top of my class."

"That's awful." She said, giving him a sympathetic look.

"My father says that I wouldn't be in so many fights if I 'just fought like a man'."

"I'm sorry, Claude." Sadness etched in her words.

Claude looked off in the distance, almost refusing to make eye contact. Inside, he was fighting the tears that were building up in his eyes.

Still looking away, he asked, "Would you tell me why you decided to stop and help me?"

"Because it looked like you needed it." She stated.

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "You didn't want anything in return?"

"Not at all," she reassured. She sewed up the last few stitches. "There, now that one's done too."

Claude looked at his shirt and how the tear was barely noticeable. "Wow, thank you so much Celeste." He said, giving her a grateful smile. He looked up to see that dusk was approaching.

"I think I need to get home now. I would really like to see you again though."

She smiled at him and replied, "Well then, see this bridge right here?" she pointed to the one to their left. "I'm usually here during the day. You can come and see me after class."

Claude's face lit up, "I will. Tomorrow, I promise."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," She said standing up, followed by him. "Goodbye Claude."

The two parted ways and Claude grinned from ear to ear the whole journey home.


	2. Fighting

The band of gypsies played along to a playful tune as a few passersby's tossed some coins into a ratty old hat. Claude came rushing forward to meet his friend.

"Hello Celeste," he greeted cheerfully. "So this is how you spend your days?"

"Pretty much. Claude, this is my family." She stopped strumming to make the introductions.

"Father," she said to a burly older gypsy playing the squeezebox. "May I go with Claude?"

"Of course!" he bellowed. "Just don't get into too much trouble!"

Celeste put down her instrument and took Claude by the hand and led him away. The children ran through the city streets until a familiar voice stopped Claude dead in his tracks.

"Hey Claudette! Where are you heading off to in such a hurry?"

He and Celeste turned to find Martin and his cronies making their way towards them, each with a sadistic smile across their faces.

Nervously, Claude asked, "What do you want, Martin?"

"We just wanted to stop and say hello." He replied smugly before turning to Celeste. "And who's your pretty friend?" inching closer to her.

"Get away from us," she commanded, sneering at him.

Martin was taken aback from this and commented, "Look at that- a gypsy telling us what to do!"

His friend Jacques interjected, "Well if she's friends with Frollo here, then she can't be that much trouble. She probably puts up the same kind of fight too!" He and Dominique grabbed Claude tightly by the arms while Martin inched closer to her.

"Then maybe we should teach her how to respect someone of status!" Martin was now too close for comfort for Celeste.

Claude struggled to break free and shouted fruitlessly, "Leave her alone, Martin!"

"Yeah?" he asked looking at the boy. "And what happens if I don-!"

_BAM!_

Martin cried out in pain and gripped his face. Blood seeped through his fingers while his hands muffled his wails. Jacques, Dominique, and Claude stared with disbelief as Celeste stood triumphantly with her fist raised.

Martin fell to the ground crying as Jacques released Claude and rushed towards Celeste, ready to take a swing at her.

But she was too quick, dodging his punch and landing a hard hit to the boy's stomach, making him collapse.

Dominique looked at her, then at Claude before taking off like a bat out of hell.

Celeste grabbed Claude's wrist and said, "Come on!" and taking off. The two darted towards the town square, constantly glancing over their shoulders to make sure Martin and company were not following them.

Arriving at their destination, Claude stopped to catch his breath before asking, "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"Well when you grow up on the streets, you have to be able to defend yourself. It's really nothing. You know how to fight, don't you?" she asked him.

Claude's cheeks turned red and he gave a sullen look. "No, I don't. Why do you think I'm always running from those three? My father never taught me how to fight or anyone really."

"Oh," Celeste replied awkwardly.

And just as awkward, Claude then asked, "Could you…maybe teach me a few things?"

She gave him a sincere smile and answered, "Sure. So let's get started.

* * *

"Remember to keep your back straight; you can't win a fight slumped like that." Celeste directed, adjusting Claude's stance. She had been helping him with his fighting techniques for about a half-hour now in a vacant alley. However, as good of learner he was, Claude was picking things up…rather slowly. It had taken quite some time in learning just how to punch correctly.

She continued, "But the most important key to fighting is about being quick. You can't just be strong, you have to be able to move and avoid getting hit."

"Well, getting hit seems to be the only thing I know." He commented.

Celeste thought for a moment before proposing another idea. "Claude, do you know the expression "know thy enemy"?"

Claude raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes…what about it?"

Celeste got into a fighting stance, "Take note of this: Martin punches with his right arm, so he pushes on his left foot before he hits."

Claude, confused at this, bluntly asked, "Your point?"

She rolled her eyes and explained, "You need to study who you're fighting with. The smallest thing could help you."

"Then I will remember to do that next time they corner me after school." He replied sarcastically. However he considered the logic in this advice. "But perhaps you're right."

"And hopefully someday," she said standing before him. "You'll be quick enough to avoid this." Poking at him hard in the forehead, she slugged him in the arm with enough force to hurt, but not enough to leave the bruises he was used to.

Rubbing at his arm, he smiled playfully at her and with more sarcasm said, "Well, thank you for that. I will remember to keep practicing."

She chuckled at him. "Maybe we should call it a day."

***Author's note: Shorter chapter, I know. Thank you to the first fan shennyfac31 for the support! It really means a lot! In the next chapter we''ll see a little of the Frollo household.**


	3. House of Frollo

Claude walked home, feeling both sore and satisfied from what little progress he had made during his training with Celeste. In his elation, he had failed to take into account how dirty his clothes had become after the day's events. When he realized this, it dawned unto him the consequences that lay ahead of him once he arrived home. Now he was tired, filthy, and worried.

_Perhaps Father has not returned home yet,_ Claude thought hopefully. _If I make it home before him, he won't see what happened. _With this in mind, Claude high-tailed it, arriving at the family manor.

Taking a deep breath, Claude opened the door and stepped into the large house. When he walked in, he only heard his mother, Jean-Marie, talking and laughing with one of her noble friends in the main parlor room. Upon her husband's insistence, she was not encouraged to be a "devoted" mother.

"Oh, Claude!" he was disappointed that she noticed him trying to sneak by. "Your father is waiting for you in his study." She said almost grimly.

Claude's eyes widened in fear. Now he knew that he was in trouble and there was no avoiding it. He nodded to his mother and turned away to head up the stairs.

He headed down the long hallway, his heartbeat increasing with every step. Claude knocked on the door terrified, and dreaded hearing his father's voice reply, "Enter." To which he obeyed.

Nicolas Frollo's study was adorned with books of all subjects, a trait obviously inherited by his son. The walls were covered in bookcases, maps, and artwork of saints and biblical scenes.

He was a heavy-set man, balding but with a thick beard, and a distinctive broad nose. As a city minister, just one look caused many to back down in fear.

"Claude," Nicolas began sternly, then taking a drink from his goblet. "One of my associates informed me that you were fighting with Martin Dupreaux again. Is this true?"

Claude gazed at his father, knowing he could not look away, lest he wanted to repeat the lesson about making eye contact. He simply replied, "Yes sir."

Nicolas put down his goblet, his hands behind his back, and approached his son.

"And how did this fight end, might I ask?" his tone condescending.

"I…lost." Claude spoke timidly and nervously.

"And why did you lose?"

Taking a silent breath, he answered, "Because I did not fight hard enough."

"You 'did not fight hard enough.' And why not?"

Claude could feel tears building up but used every ounce of strength to hold them back, considering tears usually led to a harder punishment.

_Why are you crying?_ He remembers his father saying. _I thought I was raising you to be a man, not a little girl! _

He exhaled and responded, "Because I am weak."

"Because, you are…weak!" Nicolas roared. With that said, he slapped his son hard across the face, knocking him to the ground. Claude was still fighting back any visible signs of further "weakness." He hadn't even had the time to realize the blood running from his nose.

Nicolas grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Not letting go, he dragged Claude out to the hallway and down the stairs.

"Since you fail to fight back, I suppose your only redeeming quality is that at least you can take a beating, can't you boy?" Nicolas mocked. But Claude struggled to respond, not knowing if he should.

"Answer me!" he screamed at his son, dragging him out to the back of the house.

"Yes sir!" Claude responded angrily, the tears he fought to contain were now blinding him. He winced at his father's iron grip on his arm.

Nicolas picked up a long birch stick that lay near a kindling pile and grabbed Claude by the shirt collar.

"I suppose you have no regard for the clothes I provide you either. If you would fight back, you wouldn't be ruining so many of them! But that doesn't matter to you at all, does it, you little ingrate?" With this, Nicolas pulled the back of the boy's shirt with great force, tearing it in two.

He pushed Claude to his knees, then on all fours and raised the stick high above his head. He brought it down hard like a blacksmith with a hammer.

_WHACK! _As it made contact with the boy's flesh, cracking hard against his young back. Claude gritted his teeth through the pain and collapsed to the ground.

"Until you learn success," Nicolas taunted, "All you will know is defeat!" Forcing his son back up and taking another whack at him.

He continued this punishment for about a minute before the stick finally broke over the boy's back and Nicolas was red in the face with anger and exhaustion.

Claude lay on the ground, his eyes wet with tears that he finally allowed to be released as his father walked back to the house, not once looking back.

_It's over,_ Claude thought relieved. However, he stayed lying on the ground for a few more minutes before finally gathering the strength to get up.

Picking himself up, he found himself collapsing again, his back stinging as though he had been torn to shreds. Stretching an arm behind him, he ran a hand over his back and examined how much blood covered it. Wincing through the pain, he made his way back to the house.

He found his mother bidding farewell to her friend before closing the door and turning to face her son. Her expression showed nothing, for she was used to how her husband disciplined their son, even though she was well aware that her ten-year old's body looked like he had been attacked by a pack of beasts.

"Where's Father?" Claude asked.

"He went out to the tavern and will back late." She answered before turning to walk away.

Claude limped up the stairs and entered his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He threw himself onto his bed and buried his face in his pillow. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he commanded himself to refrain from sobbing, from either the physical pain, or the internal one. The most relevant emotion, though, was fury at this so-called "weakness."

_This is how you get stronger, _he thought to himself. _Feelings distract you from getting stronger. Father says to get rid of them. Feelings make you weak, and I cannot show weakness._

Without another thought, he fell into a deep sleep.

He did not know how long he was out for, but he woke up to a burning sensation on his back, hissing at the pain. He craned his neck to see his mother, soaking a towel in a basin of hot water and applying it to his wounds.

"It's alright, Claude." She cooed, cleaning all the dried blood away. "Sit up," she ordered as she helped him up.

Claude raised his arms and Jean-Marie began to wrap him in bandages, his torso completely covered.

"There we go. Now, you are going to have to sleep on your stomach for a while, just until it heals, understand?"

Her son nodded weakly, a bit confused that his mother actually helped him for once instead of having a servant tend to him.

Jean-Marie stood up and kissed Claude on his forehead before taking the basin and towels and turning to exit the room. "And remember to wash your face." Claude recalled the trail of dried blood. "Get some rest now." She said before leaving.

Claude stared blankly at the floor, confusion fading, and being consumed by growing anger inside. Anger towards himself, his father, Martin and his cronies…

_It's their fault, _he thought. _They made me weak, but I will get my chance and make them pay._

Again, he fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep.

***Author's note: Alright I know I really jumped the shark with this chapter and might not be the best, nevertheless had the most fun writing this chapter. Thank you for the reviews and hope you like, or at least tolerate, the story at the this point.**


	4. Wrath

A small creek flowed through near the hill with a tree under which Claude and Celeste sat. She lay out under the sun while he sat under the shade and read aloud from his book _The Song of Roland_.

"'_For courage mixed with prudence is not foolish, and moderation betters recklessness_.'"

"Frollo!"

The two looked up to see Martin, who was sporting a bruise on his cheek, was heading towards them, followed by his pals.

"I told you he was here!" Dominique said.

"Shut up worm!" Martin barked at him. "Alright, Claude. You think you can get your little gypsy friend to attack us and walk away scot-free? No way! You and me: man to man! Unless, of course, you need your little peasant friend to fight your battles for you." He chided.

Claude looked at Celeste who nodded to him. He exhaled and said, "Very well, Martin. I will fight you, but Jacques and Dominique can't help you."

"Sounds fair. And neither can your friend."

"Agreed. How about a wager?" Claude proposed, half-hopeful.

"What kind of wager?"

"If I win, you will leave me alone, as well as Celeste." Gesturing to himself and her.

Martin and the boys chuckled at this. "Fine, Claude. But when _I _win, you can never have her help you in a fight with us, and you'll do all of our classwork for as long as we want!"

"Deal." The two shook on it and Celeste, Jacques, and Dominique backed away to give them space.

The boys narrowed their eyebrows at each other, giving determined and goading looks. Claude cracked his neck a little before raising his fists, which Martin did too.

_Show no mercy_, Claude thought. _Make him pay for all those times he made a fool of you and for making you weak._

Martin rushed forward with his fist raised, ready to strike Claude in the face. However, he was too fast, quickly sidestepping the attack.

Martin lost his balance and tripped over himself, falling over. A clumsy move but Claude realized that it was a window of opportunity.

When Martin tried to get up, Claude kicked him hard in the leg, causing him to groan in pain. He then kicked him in his side and Martin wailed.

_Make him feel the pain that he caused you._

Balling his hand into a fist, Claude knelt down and landed an excruciating blow to the boy's gut.

_This is what power feels like, _he thought as he stood up above Martin.

A feeling surged through Claude's body that caused his knuckles to turn white and his breathing to become heavy. His ears pounded and he forgot any sense of logic that would have easily contradicted his next thought: _Destroy him. _

Without thinking, Claude reached out his hands and wrapped them around Martin's pudgy neck, pressing his thumbs upward to block any airways. He used his knees to crush his Martin's hands to prevent any further attacks.

He watched as Martin began to turn dark red, a wicked grin stretching across Claude's thin lips.

_How the mighty have fallen._

Everything seemed nonexistent as he watched his tormentor fall victim to his wrath.

_Wrath: one of the Seven Deadly Sins. _

But his piety was drowned in a sea of vengeful bliss, and he was a god… and what does a god do to those who have wronged him?

_Proverbs 11:21: Be assured that the wicked will not go unpunished, but those who are righteous will go free._

"Claude!"

The boy snapped out from his blinding rage at Celeste's voice.

"I think he's had enough!" She said.

He looked down at Martin, whose face was turning purple. Claude released his hands from his neck and left Martin gasping for air. He stood up and looked at his hands, which trembled uncontrollably as he realized what he had just done.

Celeste took his hand and picked up his book before calmly saying, "Let's go." She led him away back towards the city, and away from the scene, where Jacques and Dominique were helping Martin up.

When they seemed far enough away, she sat him down. Claude was paler than usual, his whole body still shook, and he looked like his mind was million light years away.

"Claude? Are you alright?" she asked softly.

Without looking at her, he replied, "I did that…"

"I know. You went a little crazy there, but-"

"_I _did that…" He looked at her; his face full of shock.

Celeste took his hand and held it tight. His shaking gradually slowed and he calmed down. She gave him a reassuring smile and threw her arms around him, locking him in a tight embrace, which he returned.

"Thanks." He said gratefully.

"You're welcome. What happened to you back there?" she asked quizzically.

"I'm not too sure. All I know is that it felt good for somebody to actually be afraid of me for once. To have power…was amazing."

Celeste looked concerned over this confession, but asked, "Will your father be mad?"

Claude looked off and thought for a moment. "Maybe; He might be mad that I was fighting again, but he might be relieved when he learns that I won. That'll show him…"

"Show him what?" she asked interested.

"I told you: he thinks that I'm weak and by winning fights, I'll be stronger. The other day, he was furious about what happened with Martin. So he punished me…again." Claude looked ashamed at this information.

"What did he do?" Celeste asked, but was somewhat scared to hear the answer.

"He…hit me." Claude said, looking away.

She was relieved at his reply, expecting it to be a lot worse. "Claude, all parents hit their kids once in a while. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

He gave her a doubtful look and asked, "Do your parents nearly break your nose and then beat you with a wooden stick?"

She was taken aback by this, trying to picture the kind of "discipline" Claude described.

"Did your father ever do _this _to you?" Pulling his shirt over his head and turning his back to her.

She gasped with horror at the sight; Claude's back was strewed with scars. It looked as though someone had been practicing sword-fighting on him, or like a chef's cutting board. Wounds upon wounds, many of them etched deep, evidencing that this was something he was accustomed to.

"Claude…" she spoke nervously. "I'm sorry."

He slipped his shirt back on correctly and turned to face her. "It's not your fault. And besides, I'm used to it. Come on." He gestured to her. "Let's get you home."

The rest of the walk was mostly silent, until they reached the bridge where Celeste played.

"You know Celeste," he began. "There's something I've wondered: where do you live?"

She sighed, "A gypsy hideout, called the Court of Miracles."

"A gypsy hideout? Where?" he asked.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret anymore. I'm sorry Claude but I just can't say."

He rolled his eyes and said, "Very well, then. But if it is a secret, I might just find out someday."

She chuckled and replied, "Maybe."

"Thank you for everything today, Celeste." He gave her a sincere smile.

"Well, you are my best friend, Claude." She said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Claude turned and walked away.

***Author's note: Now we finally get to see Frollo adopting some of his psychotic behavior! Thanks for the great reviews so far! Shoutout to HimClaudeFaciler: you're too kind!**


	5. Dear God

"And that's why it's considered bad luck for gypsies to wear red." Celeste explained as she and Claude walked through the town square.

"Interesting," he said, then gazed up at the Notre Dame cathedral; he had always been fascinated with its imposing majesty. "Celeste, why do I never see gypsies going to church?" he asked impulsively, looking to his friend.

"What?" she asked surprised.

"My father would tell me that gypsies don't deserve God, but I don't believe it. So why don't they attend mass?"

Celeste looked away, searching for an answer. She then calmly replied, "Because we don't need to."

Bewildered at this statement he asked, "You 'don't need to'? What do you mean?"

"We gypsies don't feel the need to go church and pray to be good people. It's just something a person should do no matter what." She explained.

Claude looked back at the church, "I was always taught that everybody needed God to be a good person."

"It's not that simple, Claude." She replied sullenly.

"Then what is it?" he crossed his arms, looking doubtful.

"People always tell us that our kind isn't welcome in your church. So we don't put our faith in a God that turned His back on us."

Claude listened with disbelief at this information. He thought, _But God is all-forgiving, all-loving, is He not? They need to see that._

"How can you not be allowed in the house of God?"

She shot him an almost bitter look and spoke, "Claude, have you ever seen a gypsy in Mass?"

He thought hard about it; he could not remember a single time of ever seeing one. "…No, I don't think so." Now he was very confused.

"People don't like us because we're different, so we've been shunned. That's why we don't go."

He tried to imagine what it would be like to be denied of God. "That's awful. Everybody should have the right to the Lord."

"I wish more people felt that way. Come on." She turned prepared walked away.

"Wait," he said, grabbing Celeste by the arm. "There's something I need to do first." Taking her by the hand, Claude led her up the church's steps and opened the heavy wooden doors, motioning her to enter.

Upon entering, Celeste looked in awe at the endless marvels that Notre Dame had to offer, in particular, the rose window depicting the Virgin Mother and Child, surrounded by kings and prophets.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked from behind her.

"I'll say," she answered, still amazed by her surroundings. Claude noticed how her colorful appearance contrasted heavily with the slate walls, but was complimented with the light pouring in from the endless spectrum provided by the numerous stained glass scenes.

"I can't imagine why anyone would not be allowed _this_." Claude led her to an empty pew near the front and motioned her to sit down.

"So why did you bring me here, Claude?" she asked, taking a seat.

"First of all: to share the beauty of Notre Dame. Second: because I told you, Celeste, I have to do something. Wait for me here."

Claude approached the altar and crossed himself before kneeling down, clasping his hands together, and bowing his head. He began to pray:

_Dear Lord,_

_Thank you for my health, my family, my home, and my success in school._

_Thank you for giving me the strength to defeat my enemy, but forgive me for my use of the Deadly Sin, wrath._

_But most of all…_

Claude turned his head a little and glanced at Celeste, who was still taking in all the sights of the cathedral.

_Thank you for sending me my dear friend, Celeste._

_Please keep her safe, happy, and healthy._

_Praise be to God._

_Amen._

Crossing himself again, he got up and walked back to Celeste. "Ready to go?" he asked.

"Ready when you are." She replied, exiting the pew.

Claude smiled as he looked back up at the rose window before following her to the narthex of the church. Before they could open the doors, the kids were stopped by a voice calling, "Young Master Frollo!" It was the church's Archdeacon.

"Hello, Father Augustin." Claude greeted politely.

"My boy, I know you take Mass very seriously, but it doesn't begin for another hour."

"Yes, I know, Father. This is my friend, Celeste." He pulled her close to him, trying to break her obvious shyness. "I was just showing her the inside of Notre Dame."

"I see," Father Augustin looked at her. "It's nice to meet you, young lady." He said, smiling warmly at her.

Easing up a little, she replied, "You too."

"So, am I to understand this is your first time visiting the cathedral?"

Nervously, she answered, "Yes, it is."

"Is it?" Augustin's curiosity stirred. "May I ask, why have you never ventured in here before, my child?"

Celeste quickly glanced at Claude before saying, "Because my kind isn't allowed here."

Augustin was stunned at the answer and gave a chuckle. "That's absurd! Everyone is permitted to turn to God and to enter His house."

"I told her that, Father," Claude interjected, trying not to sound too smug, "Even gypsies are allowed." Causing to Celeste discreetly roll her eyes at him.

"That's very noble of you, Claude. Well then, Celeste, remember that you are always welcome here."

"Thank you, sir." She said kindly.

"Now you two should run along."

"Thank you, Father." Claude said, pushing the heavy door open.

"And Claude, don't get your friend into trouble!"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Father!"

_When do I ever go looking for trouble? _He thought.

The two left and Celeste turned to her friend. "Thanks for showing me the church; it was nice. But why did you have to pray all of sudden?"

Giving her a mysterious smile, he said, "There was something really important that I needed to tell God."

"Oh? And what was that?"

He smirked and said, "Never mind."

He thought to himself, _Maybe that is my purpose in life: to bring people to God…to be a crusader!_

Walking away, Celeste then asked, "Claude, why do you care so much about gypsies going to Mass?"

"Well," he began, "All my life my father would tell me gypsies shouldn't be allowed to, but never explained why. Now that I have a gypsy friend, I wanted to share with you something I love: the church."

"That's sweet of you." She patted him on the shoulder.

"Does this mean you'll go to Mass now?" he asked hopefully.

Looking back up at the building, she simply said, "Maybe. But here's something about gypsies: we don't do well inside stone walls."

"Why not?"

"Gypsies have to be free and can't be trapped or we go crazy."

"That explains a lot." He remarked. "No matter what my father says, I still hope more of you will be able to go to church someday."

"You have a _lot _of problems with your father, don't you?" she commented.

He sighed, "You don't know the half of it."

"Well then, I hope you never become like him."

"Me neither. That's why I hope I never become a parent!" He declared as they walked away from the cathedral.

***Author's note: Enjoy the fluff. The reviews have been great so far, so thank you guys!**


	6. Peer Pressure

"Another year, another festival." Claude remarked as the town square was being prepared for the annual Festival of Fools.

"Don't tell me you hate the festival, Claude." Celeste said, nudging him in the arm, which he just shrugged at.

"I never really know what to do." He replied nonchalantly.

"What's not to do? The whole point is to have fun!"

He rolled his eyes, "The whole thing is ridiculous to me; I've never enjoyed it."

"Oh, lighten up!" she said, throwing her arm around his shoulders. "I'll tell you what: this year, you're going to enjoy the festival."

"Is that a promise?" he said sarcastically.

"Yes it is," she grinned at him.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

* * *

As a city official, Nicolas Frollo and his family were obligated to attend the Festival of Fools, but not once partaking in the delight of the affair. Usually he let his wife and son go about their business, while he mingled with other nobles. Before letting Claude go, he grabbed the boy by his arm, looked him straight in the eyes and sternly said, "Don't do anything stupid, understand?"

He nodded his head in agreement before heading off to find his friend.

All of sudden he felt a hand clamp over his mouth and his arms locked by the other person.

"Surprise!" Celeste greeted, releasing him.

Sneering at this sneak attack, he said, "That wasn't funny, Celeste."

"I was just messing with you," lightly punching him in the arm. "There's someone I want you to meet." Grabbing his hand, she led him to an alleyway where two gypsy boys sat.

"Hello, René." Claude greeted one of the boys. He had already met Celeste's older brother, who played a flute in their gypsy band, who nodded at him. Claude turned his attention to the slightly taller boy, who must have been about twelve or thirteen years old. He was very athletically built and had a mess of curly black hair.

"Claude, this is my friend Marcel." Celeste stated.

Shaking each other's hand, the boy then said, "So you're the famous Claude Frollo that Celeste is always talking about?"

Not knowing whether it was a legitimate question or something more condescending, he simply replied, "Yes, I am."

Celeste turned to him and spoke, "Claude, René and I are going to be performing for a while, so I'm leaving you with Marcel."

Glancing at the older boy and now raising his caution, he replied, "Very well."

"Great." She said, inside praying that the two would at least get along and not find some reason to kill each other…especially now that she knew what Claude was capable of.

The kids heard the crowd roar, signaling that the festival was beginning.

"Looks like it's time for us to go." René said, motioning to his sister to follow him.

Celeste turned to Claude and Marcel and bid farewell. "I'll see you guys later."

As soon as she took off, Claude felt the overwhelming awkwardness to be stuck with someone he had just met, especially one who made him feel like he should keep his guard up.

"So…" he said nervously. "What now?

Marcel walked over to Claude and grabbed him by the wrists, making him even more nervous. "What are you doing?" he asked, now a little annoyed as Marcel examined his hands.

"You'll do," Marcel said, releasing him. "Follow me." He led Claude out of the alley before the crowd of spectators and turned to him. "I'm going to show you a few things on how to _really_ have fun here."

Claude raised an eyebrow, irritated at Marcel's ambiguity; now he was a little scared to find out what Marcel meant by "fun."

"You see, Frollo, some of us don't live as well as you; some of us have to do things to get by."

"What do you mean?" he asked uncertainly.

"Watch and learn." Marcel led him through the sea of people, whose attention was aimed at the various performers and spectacles riding in. Nobody seemed to pay any mind to them.

Marcel walked up to a man who was turned away. He reached his hand towards the man's coinpurse and lightly pulled it off of him without being noticed. Walking away, Marcel grabbed Claude by the arm and led him back to the alley.

"Did you see that?" he proudly asked Claude while rummaging through the bag.

"You mean you stealing? Yes." He replied accusingly, appalled at what he just witnessed.

Marcel rolled his eyes at him. "Look kid, I told you that some of us have to do things to earn money…even if that means getting our hands dirty to level things out."

Claude furrowed his brow at him, "'_Earn.'" _he muttered. "Stealing is a _sin,_ Marcel. The seventh Commandment clearly states _'Thou shalt not commit theft.'_"

"Frollo, let me enlighten you on something: Not all of us take religion as seriously as you. Gypsies do what we have to do to survive. Besides," he said patting Claude on the shoulder, "You should try it out."

"Why?" he asked, infuriated at Marcel's "logic."

"Because you never know when you might need to pickpocket. And the Feast of Fools is the perfect place to learn."

"I don't think I want to…"

Marcel sighed, "Come on, Frollo. Think of it as you taking from the privileged and giving it to the less fortunate."

"Marcel, I'm _not _stealing from peasants!" he asserted. _Besides, I'm better than that, _he thought.

"Fine, how about this: we'll pickpocket only off the rich, since they have plenty to go around."

Claude stood there, still unmoved by Marcel's proposal.

Marcel shook his head, "I should have known you couldn't do it. From what Celeste told me, I thought you would have had more guts than this. I guess I had you pegged wrong."

Claude's anger was growing with Marcel's taunts, but he was doing everything to his ability not to pounce and strangle the boy. _Do not let him get to you, Claude, _he reminded himself.

"I can't believe Celeste is actually friends with you." He mocked, chuckling to himself. "Poor girl."

That did it; Claude's blood was boiling and he had had enough.

_You will not take this lying down, _he thought. _Rise to the challenge, defend your name, and prove your worth…for Celeste._

"Alright!" he snapped, startling him. "I'll do it."

Marcel grinned mischievously, "Great. Okay, look, you have skinny hands, which means they're nimble." Claude looked at his hands, now slightly embarrassed. "If they're nimble, then you're less likely to get caught."

_What am I getting myself into? _

"Now let's go find you a "generous donor," shall we?" Marcel said, leading Claude back into the crowd. He leaned forward to tell Claude, "Take your pick," loud enough for him to hear, but discreetly enough to not be heard by anyone else.

Claude's heartbeat increased as he scanned around, looking for anyone who looked wealthy enough and, hopefully, his father did not know personally. He noticed a round man wearing an expensive-looking purple tunic…and his coinpurse was hanging there carelessly, waiting to be taken. Glancing at Marcel, who waved him away, Claude dragged his feet towards the man.

_Don't do anything stupid, understand? _He could still hear his father's words echo in his mind. More trouble to endure should he get caught.

_I can't believe Celeste is actually friends with you. _The words stung like needles. Claude dreaded the thought of Celeste leaving because he was not worthy of being her friend. He needed to prove that, especially to one of her fellow gypsies, that he _was _good enough.

He walked up behind the man, who was distracted by a pint of ale.

_What am I doing? This isn't right, _his conscience reminded him.

_Do it for Celeste, _he contradicted himself.

He reached forward and lifted the coinpurse up towards him, his heart beating fast enough to burst out of his chest. Holding it in his hand, Claude waited for the man to spin around, grab him, and threaten to turn him over to the authorities. But he did not.

Claude hurried away, completely astonished at his luck with the prize he held. And yet it felt as though his fingertips were burning.

_I have sinned,_ he reprimanded himself. _Claude Frollo, you are a thief._

Making his way back to Marcel, he was greeted by an approving smile. "Well Frollo, I guess you did have it in you." Patting him on the back, he said, "Won't Celeste be proud of you! You can keep that money too."

Pulling away from Marcel, Claude said, "I have to go."

Giving him a confused look, he replied, "Go where?"

Not looking at him, Claude turned and walked away. He felt a knot twisting in his stomach as he made his way to Notre Dame. Suddenly, he felt a splitting pain in his head.

_You've sinned. You must pay for that sin. _

Entering and shutting the door behind him, he felt a wave of relief as the sound of the crowd became muffled by the thick walls of the cathedral.

He turned his attention to the collection box and approached it. Taking the coinpurse, he looked inside it and saw that the man he stole from was indeed very well off. He dumped all the bag's contents into the box, the sound reverberating throughout the silent church.

_At least it won't go to waste. _His thoughts were supposed to offer comfort, but the guilt still lingered, churning recklessly in his gut.

Claude turned around, but instead of heading back outside, he made his way to where an empty booth was, shutting the door behind him and sitting down.

The guilt was starting to hurt so bad, he thought he might actually be sick.

The brass slot slid open, the voice greeting, "Do you wish to confess?"

Even though Claude knew that his voice would be recognized, at this point he did not care. Clasping his hands together and squeezing his eyes tight, he shakily said, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The Archdeacon then said, "What do you have to confess, my child?"

Claude took a deep breath and spoke, "Father, I was pressured into breaking the Commandment of not stealing. I stole from a rich man at the festival. But I didn't keep the money!"

"Then where did it go?"

"I put it in the donations box, so it would go to a good cause." He said, which he hoped would be seen as some kind of redemption in this situation.

"That was very generous of you to give to the less fortunate, but still, theft is a crime no matter which way, my son."

"I know, I know!" Claude pleaded. "Please Father, do not tell my parents. I know I've done wrong! They'll be furious with me."

"Don't worry," Father Augustin said, "All things confessed are kept in strict confidence."

"Thank you," Claude said, alleviating some of the shame. "I never want to steal again."

"Good. Anything else you wish to confess to?"

"No, Father. That's all."

"Very well, you are forgiven." Augustin crossed the boy, before getting up to leave.

Claude exited Notre Dame, and saw the whole city having a good time. However, he felt as though the life had been sucked out of him and replaced with sheer melancholy.

He slunk down on the steps of the church and watched everyone enjoy themselves without a care in the world. Claude rested his head in his hands, wishing the day would end already or God to strike him down…whichever came first.

Once again, he would not enjoy the Feast of Fools.

***Author's note: I had the urge to make this chapter sadder because I wanted to give Frollo more human emotions, in this case, guilt. This chapter is what happens when you're stuck in a stage lighting booth by yourself for two hours. The reviews have been greatly appreciated, so thank you!**


	7. A Bad Omen

Celeste found Claude sitting on the steps of Notre Dame, watching the festival both mindlessly and uninterestedly. Even when she approached him, he did not even notice her or René and Marcel. He was in a completely different world right now, unbeknownst to her, he was still struggling with the guilt and shame acquired minutes ago.

"Claude, is something wrong?" she asked, startling him and bringing him back to reality.

His slate-gray eyes gave away that there was indeed something wrong, but looking over at Marcel, Claude thought that he should not give anything away that might jeopardize everyone's good time by admitting to his inner turmoil or his new approval from the older boy. Nonchalantly, he answered, "No, nothing's wrong." Rising to his feet, he thought to himself, _Just keep calm and everything will be fine._

Claude followed the others as the festival raged on, not once cracking a smile or showing the least amount of enjoyment. Most of the day seemed to blur into one long dream. Nothing really seemed to interest him until Celeste pointed over to where a crowd was gathering.

"Look!" she said, pointing to a beautiful young gypsy woman dancing before the audience. "That's my Aunt Rona!" she said to Claude.

He was not sure of what to think of the display. He glanced around at the other spectators; he saw men grinning and watching her with prying eyes, while the women glared at her and sneered at their drooling husbands. Scanning the rest of the crowd, his heart stopped and felt a shiver run down his spine when he saw one face he hoped he would not have to see.

Nicolas glared at Rona with the same kind of angry expression he gave when he received bad news from a colleague…or right before giving Claude a beating.

Even though he was married, Nicolas had never held women in high regard: they were either property with the sole purpose of bearing children, or were "succubi," as Claude remembered him saying-meant to tempt good men into committing sin unless they married them. His son never paid much attention to these rants and was still too young to completely understand the relationships between men and women. Still, the boy could not help but feel concerned over his father's expression…like it was some kind of omen.

Keeping his head down, Claude watched as Rona danced before the adoring audience. When she finished, she took a bow, the audience showering her with coins. Claude and his friends clapped, Marcel whistling approvingly.

"Pretty good, huh?" Celeste commented, nudging Claude in the side.

When the applause began to die down, Rona gave a quick wave of her arm, and a flash of blue smoke blinded the audience, who gasped in amazement and awe.

The smoke cleared revealing that Rona had vanished, leaving questions fly back and forth amongst the baffled audience:

"Where did she go?"

"Did you see that?"

"Is she a witch?"

Claude blinked at this, trying to comprehend the illusion, leaving him just as confused as everyone else.

He turned to his friend and asked, "How did she do that?"

"It's an old gypsy trick. It's a secret too," she answered, smirking at him.

He looked back over at his father, who did not look the least bit amused; in fact, his face was filled with disgust and outrage. He turned to one of his associates and began to scream at him. Fortunately, Claude could not hear whatever it was he was saying.

The crowd dispersed, and the four left the scene as well, going back to the festival. In this atmosphere of celebration, Claude's head was swimming with emotions: worry, anger, guilt, shame, and confusion.

All of a sudden, he felt as though the air around him was thinning as he began to notice how many people surrounded him.

_Too many people, _he thought_. Can't think, can't breathe…need to get away. _He could feel another pain shooting across his head, fearful that his whole skull would split open. His hands gripped at his head, and he could feel his face burning.

"I need to get out of here," he thought out loud, unbeknownst that Celeste had heard.

"Claude, are you alright?" she asked worriedly, grabbing his shoulder. Marcel and René looked at them, completely lost on what to do.

"I need to leave…I need to go home," He said frantically, looking around like a frightened animal.

"Then let's get you home," she said comfortingly.

"It's fine," he said, breathing deeply, not looking at her, "I'll go…Have to go…find Father."

Celeste turned to the boys, "Guys, I'm going to take Claude home. René, tell Father I'll be back."

Celeste took Claude's arm. "So where is he?" she asked him as the boys walked away.

He looked around until he noticed his father's famous chaperon hat from across the crowd. "There," he said pointing.

Claude led her through the ocean of festival-goers, hating every moment of being so close to so many people, and fearing that he might suffocate.

Nicolas was barking orders at someone when Claude reached him. Before approaching his father, Claude told Celeste to wait for him, since he could not be caught with a gypsy.

"Father?" he nervously addressed.

Nicolas turned to his son. "What is it, Claude?" he asked, his tone indicating that he was not in a pleasant mood.

"May I please go home? I don't feel very well."

Nicolas rolled his eyes, "Very well. I suppose you're enjoying this plebian festivity as much as I am."

"Thank you, sir," Claude said before turning to walk away. He was surprised that his father gave him permission so easily; usually if he informed that he felt ill, Nicolas would berate him for not facing sickness head-on.

Something was very wrong…

Getting back to Celeste, he told her to follow him as he showed her to his home.

During the walk, Celeste attempted to make small conversation with Claude, but was met with short, few-syllable responses. Inside, he was trying to calm the storm in his head. She could feel that there was something deeply troubling her friend.

"That's it," he said pointing to the Frollo manor, which impressed the girl very much. He led her up the walkway and opened the door to let her in. The inside of the house fascinated Celeste even more. With its rich interior, it amazed her that she actually had a friend who lived here.

"Home sweet home," Claude said bitterly. "Mother allowed the servants to attend the festival if they wanted." Glancing up the staircase and around the parlor room, he commented, "I suppose that everyone's gone."

"This place is incredible!" Celeste said, enraptured.

"Would you like to see the rest of the house?" he asked.

"Of course!" she said following him.

As they toured the Frollo home, it was hard for Celeste to ignore the plethora of religious materials-from bibles and rosaries to artwork; now she understood why Claude was so devout. Even his room, next to the endless array of books, had its healthy dose of Catholicism.

"What's in there?" she asked, pointing to the door at the end of the hallway.

"My father's study. I don't think you want to go in there," he warned.

"Why not?"

Claude bit his lip, afraid to answer. "Maybe we should just go back downstairs," he then heard the sound of the door creaking open.

_Oh no, _he thought as he spun around to see Celeste entering, following her quickly.

"Celeste, wait-" he stopped and found her staring at a manuscript left on his father's desk.

"What is this?" she asked pointing to the page. Claude peered over, embarrassed at what she found.

"It's a…witch burning," he answered regretfully.

"A witch?" Celeste asked, shocked.

"Yes. My father is always trying to find them so he can burn them in the square."

Celeste gazed at him like he was crazy, but then took another look around the study: Claude's father had an array of depictions of sorceresses being put to death.

"He doesn't respect women, but he hates witches most of all. He had one burned, a long time ago." Celeste looked at him, still perplexed at the information. "And he says gypsy women are all witches. That's also why he hates them."

After a moment of thought, she then asked, "Claude, what happened at the festival?"

Eyes darting away, he replied, "I don't know what you're talking about." Walking to the door, Celeste following out to the hallway.

"Really? When I found you, you looked like somebody died." She reasoned.

Exhaling, he said, "Alright, I'll tell you." He went on to explain the pickpocketing, how the guilt that eating away inside,and how he gave the money away.

"You did the right thing, Claude. So you made a mistake, everybody does," she reassured him.

_But I'm not supposed to, _he thought.

He explained how he was afraid of Nicolas at the festival.

"When your aunt was dancing, my father looked like he was going to explode-which means he's going to take it out on me…or someone else," he stated.

Celeste had a look of concern. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I don't think so," he answered disappointedly. "I think you should get back to the festival before you get in trouble," he suggested, walking to the front door.

"What's going to happen to you?" she asked.

Claude shrugged his shoulders. "I'll be fine. My father's punished me before, don't worry," he said, opening the door and Celeste stepping outside.

Before she could walk away, Claude stopped her, "Celeste. You and your family should be careful the next few days. Promise?"

"I promise," she said uncertainly before walking away from the manor.

Inside, Claude's worry never ceased.

_Please, have mercy, _he prayed before walking back upstairs to his room. Picking up the first book he saw, he instantly threw himself into it, trying to forget about the day's events.

***Author's note: Alright I tried to make this chapter as good as possible, but really this chapter is sort of like a bridge for the next one. It was kind if sad to show how Frollo has a hard time dealing with his emotions. Now we can see him developing a sort of anxiety and almost a hatred for the human race, as well as his perfectionism. Please tell me what you think.**


	8. Am I Evil?

Claude walked through the streets of Paris absentmindedly on his way home from school.

He had not seen Celeste in a couple of days and was increasingly worried about her. She had not even been at the bridge with her family as usual. He hated to think that the worst might have come. Too deep in thought, he barely had time to notice the hand locked around his arm, pulling him into an alley with great force.

"What are you do-!"

"Shhh!"

"Celeste?" he asked, shocked to see his friend right in front of him. "Celeste, what are you doing? Where have you been-"

"Claude, listen," she began, still gripping his arm. "My family's been hiding the last few days and we need to keep it that way. It's too dangerous for us. I just came to tell you."

"What do you mean 'too dangerous'?" he asked, releasing her arm from him.

She sighed. "Claude, haven't you noticed anything _different_ lately? Around the city? At home?"

He thought about it for a moment. He had noticed that he saw less of his father lately. "Does my father have something to do with it?"

She gave him a grave look and nodded. "You were right: he's been looking for Aunt Rona, claiming that she's a witch and all this stuff."

Claude's eyes widened. "That's terrible," he replied. All his life, he had never been surprised at anything his father did, but it dawned on him that now somebody he cared about was being hurt by Nicolas's cruelty.

"I need you to promise me something, Claude," Celeste said.

"Alright. What?"

"Promise me that you won't tell your father anything you know about the gypsies."

Claude hesitated; it was one thing not to tell his father something, but what if he was asked? Was he to lie?

"I'm not sure I can lie for you, Celeste," he stated, but afraid of what she might say.

"Claude, you won't be lying. If your father asks if you know anything about where the gypsies are, just say you don't know. You won't be lying because I'm not telling you where we're hiding," she explained.

"You're not?"

"I told you already, our hiding place is supposed to be a _secret. _If I told you now, you might let it slip and reveal where it is."

He realized that she might be right; under enough pressure, his father could probably break him into giving away their location.

"Is it that "Court of Miracles" thing where you're hiding?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'm sorry about this whole thing, but I have to do what I can for me and my family to stay safe."

Claude looked at the cobblestone pavement and replied, "I understand."

"Claude, I promise as soon it's safe enough, I'll come back and see you." She reassured him, giving him a sincere smile.

"Alright then," he said, returning the smile. "Stay out of harm's way, Celeste. You and your family."

"You too, Claude," she gave him a big hug before she took off running.

Claude called out to her as she ran, "Go with God!"

Walking home, he could not help but feel a little better as long as he knew that Celeste was safe.

Then he thought, _But for how long?_

* * *

Life at home had been easier for Claude: Nicolas was so wrapped up in trying to catch the "witch" that he barely had any time to bully his son. Nevertheless, Claude knew that he should keep out of his father's way when he was this worked up.

Claude began to notice that his father was changing over the course of time he was on this witch-hunt: He seemed more detached than usual, he looked more unkempt in his appearance, and when he was home, he locked himself in his study immediately and refused to see anybody. Even though he loved his study, usually he would still spend time around the house, riding his horse Bacchus outside, or have a few drinks at the local tavern. Now he was completely reclusive. Claude and Jean-Marie knew very well not to disturb him in such a state.

One night, Claude was walking up the stairs to his bedroom, preparing to retire for the night, when a voice out of nowhere scared the life out of him.

"Claude!"

The boy stopped dead in his tracks upon hearing his father's voice boom from his study. He stood frozen in front of his bedroom door, afraid to heed Nicolas's call or leave now.

"Claude Frollo!" Nicolas bellowed again. Now the boy knew he had to go in.

Opening the door, Claude saw his father hunched over his desk, a wine bottle in hand. He looked up at his son standing in the doorway and drunkenly said, "Come in, come in, boy."

Like a dog with its tail between its legs, Claude walked in ever-fearful of what his father might do. It seems like whenever he was in the study, he got hurt.

"Yes, sir?" he greeted automatically.

Rising from his desk, Nicolas made his way to a window while taking another swig from the bottle. "Tell me something, son…am I a cruel man?"

Completely caught off-guard by this question, Claude struggled for an answer. _Come up with something already, _he thought to himself. Then he remembered something one of his teachers said and answered, "That's a matter of perception."

Still staring out the window, Nicolas broke out into an intoxicated laughter, leaving Claude to hope that he would just shoo him away now.

"_'A matter of perception,'_ right," he replied. He turned to face the boy, "You know, they always said you were smart, Claude. I agree, but you lack any real strength." He chuckled this, raising the bottle to his lips again. "Then tell me, boy genius, how would _you _handle this witch problem that plagues the very streets of our city?" he asked, slurring the last few words.

Now Claude wanted nothing more than for Nicolas to just hit and send him away as always; anything to escape this. This was one thing his mind had never prepared for: a conversation with his father. He had no idea what to say and feared what would happen if he said the wrong thing.

"I-I'm not sure what I'd do, sir," he answered.

Nicolas rested on the sofa in the middle of the room and finished off the wine. "I'm doing what I must do-to protect Paris and her people. If that means I have to exterminate every gypsy whore to complete the task, then so be it!" He threw the bottle across the room, nearly hitting his son, who forced himself to stand still and pretend like nothing happened.

"Believe me, Claude," he said, pointing at him sternly. "You would have done the same thing to protect your city _and_ yourself. You may think I'm crazy, son, but one day you'll face the same trials, and you'll understand."

_I hope that day never comes, _he thought. He nodded at his father in false agreement.

Looking away from Claude, Nicolas then said, "Alright, I think that's enough "enlightenment" for one day. Get out of here," waving the boy away.

Walking out, Claude could not believe what just happened: his father did not strike or insult him (harshly, at least), he gave him what was as close to a compliment as he would ever receive, and he did not see his father as himself whatsoever. For once, Nicolas was neither calm and collected nor raving mad, the only two behaviors that Claude was accustomed to. It was all very overwhelming and Claude was grateful to get some well-deserved sleep.

* * *

The morning was bitter cold, but Nicolas still stuck Claude with chopping firewood, saying that it would build up the boy's upper body strength. The blisters might have been unbearable and forced him to ask his father for gloves, but Claude actually found it enjoyable to wield an axe and split each piece of wood down the middle, secretly imagining it was Martin's head.

As he carried on with his labor, Nicolas walked outside towards him with a smile stretching across his face.

"So, my boy, will you be attending the execution in the square at noon today?" Claude knew that his father lived for torturing and executing criminals, and it had become a hobby of sorts for Nicolas.

Claude shrugged his shoulders. "I might go see," he replied.

"Well, I hope you do get to see. They're always quite...entertaining," he said sadistically before walking to the stables to retrieve Bacchus.

_Entertaining, _Claude thought. _Just a bunch of sinners screaming for mercy. It's so boring now._

He carried on with his chore for about another ten minutes or so before he was stopped by a familiar voice.

"Claude!"

He turned around and saw Celeste running towards him.

"Celeste, what are you doing here?" he asked, trying to contain his smile.

"You have to come with me, Claude!" she said, gripping his arm.

"Where?" he asked, removing his gloves.

"The square!"

_He didn't…he couldn't have,_ he thought._ They were supposed to be safe._

Claude followed Celeste as they ran from the manor all the way to the crowded town square. In the middle of it all…a wooden stake with a woman in white prison garb tied to it. The pyre was quickly being supplied with firewood.

"They caught your aunt? But how?" Claude asked, surprised.

Celeste nodded. Her eyes filled with tears and she chokingly answered, "I don't know. She went out when the coast was clear-then we heard she was arrested! Someone must have told!" She covered her face with her hands, embarrassed to let Claude see her like this.

"Citizens of Paris!"

Claude knew that voice. It could only belong to one person…

"The gypsy, Rona, has been found guilty of the crime of witchcraft! The punishment for such an unholy crime is death…by fire!"

"No!" Celeste cried, before Claude grabbed her arm.

"There's nothing we can do now! Believe me, Celeste," he told her. They listened as Nicolas continued.

"Had it not been for an anonymous tip from a good citizen, this evil sorceress would have continued to run free and lead others down the path of sin!"

_Anonymous tip? _Claude thought. _Who would do that?_

"As Minister of Justice, it is my sacred duty to uphold the law of God and send this demon back to the depths of Hell where she rightfully belongs!" Taking the torch from the one of his soldiers, Nicolas threw it into the pile of kindling and watched it as the flames grew and smoke rose.

Celeste burst into tears and buried her face against Claude as they listened to Rona as she screamed to the heavens, the fire consuming her.

For some reason, Claude could not help but stare at the woman as her body was charred and ashes filled the air. He had been to at least a dozen executions with his father, but none of them had ever been so…hypnotizing.

He knew it was not right, especially with Celeste needing his comfort, but he could not pry his eyes from the grisly sight. Luckily Celeste did not see, but a small smirk played at the side of his mouth as he watched the last of the flames before they died out.

***Author's note: Like I said, I needed the last chapter as a bridge for this one. I just really wanted to write a chapter with a witch-hunt! Sorry not sorry. Plus I wanted to show Frollo, again, adopting some of his modern tendencies, like pyromania...**

**Trivia: "Bacchus" was the Roman god of wine, which kind of reflects Nicolas's love for the stuff, right? That and it sounded cool.**

**I have a few ideas in store, but is there anything you guys want to see in the story? Please let me know and I'll see what I can do.**


	9. The Minister's Son

"I'm very sorry about Rona," Claude said sympathetically. Celeste had brought him to a gypsy campsite where everyone sat around a campfire, still in mourning, including her. The girl clung to her mother sitting across from Claude.

Celeste's mother looked at him and smiled. "Thank you, Claude. At least my sister will no longer suffer the oppression we do."

"By any chance, Claude," Celeste's father spoke up. "Is the Minister of Justice your father?"

Claude froze up, suddenly feeling extremely shameful. "I swear, I didn't tell him anything! I didn't!" he said frantically.

"Calm down, son! I'm not accusing you of anything. It must be hard living with such a man."

"It's not much fun," Claude replied, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

"I just don't understand," Celeste's mother interjected. "Who would do such a thing to have Rona arrested?" Everyone went quiet, still angry with the fact that they were sold out.

Celeste looked at her friend. "Claude, maybe you should get home," she said. He nodded and rose to his feet.

Looking to her family, he said, "Again, I'm very sorry about what happened." He turned away and began down the trail home.

The gypsy camp had been on the outskirts of the city, hidden inside the forest, but Claude still knew his way back.

Along the way, though, he could not help but feel uncomfortable…like someone was watching him. He tried not to pay any attention to it and continued his way back.

* * *

The next day, Claude's mind was a storm of thoughts, wondering who gave away Rona, and why did he constantly feel like he was being stalked. Even Martin and his friends throwing pebbles at him could not shake these thoughts.

Walking home from school, he felt a presence even stronger than before. Claude stopped and spun around on his heels, only to find that nobody was there…but not behind him.

A hand clamped over his mouth, while another person tied his hands behind his back. He tried to scream, but was met only with a voice hissing, "Shut up!"

Claude watched as a group of gypsies surrounded him, each one with a blood-hungry stare, some with daggers.

"Told you we'd get him!" Emerging from the group was Marcel, wearing an evil grin on his face. Claude tried to express his surprise upon seeing the boy, but the man quickly tied a cloth around his mouth, preventing any words from escaping.

"Hey, Claude," Marcel greeted, smugly. "Listen, you might have Celeste fooled, but we all know that only the minister's son could've betrayed Rona."

Claude's words of protest were muffled by the cloth; he wanted to explain that he did not know anything about the whole ordeal but his attempts were fruitless.

"You're no friend of the gypsies," Marcel continued. "Do it!"

Just like that, Claude felt something crash into his head, turning everything black…

* * *

Claude blinked his eyes open, only to shut them tight again. His vision was fuzzy and his head was throbbing, feeling as though it would explode. When he finally got his senses back, he noticed that one hand was shackled to a wooden wall. The other hand rubbed at his aching head, already feeling a bruise forming on top.

He looked around and noticed that he was surrounded by colorful cloths and scarves in this very tight wooden space…a gypsy caravan.

_What happened?_ He thought. The he remembered: he had been kidnapped in a plot formulated by Marcel. He wondered how many others had conspired against him. Was Celeste in on it too?

He listened and could hear the gypsies chattering outside. He knew that he had to find a way out of here and fast. Who knew how long he had been out? Had anyone even noticed that he was missing?

_Think, think of something, _he ordered himself. _You have one shackle; it can't be that hard to get out of it. _He scanned around, looking for something that could help him…anything.

* * *

"Nicolas, have you seen Claude?" Jean-Marie asked, as she sat in the parlor room.

"I thought he was locked up in his room," her husband replied not looking up, engrossed in one of his books.

"No, he didn't even return from school, and it's getting quite late," obvious concern growing in her voice.

"He's probably with one of his friends, raising hell somewhere," Nicolas said, half-interested.

"It's not like him to stay out so late," she looked out the window, noticing how dark it was getting. "What if something's happened to him? What if he's in trouble?"

Nicolas rolled his eyes. "You have to stop coddling him. How else is supposed to grow up? If he's in trouble, he'll get himself out."

"Master Frollo!"

The two looked up and saw one of their servants hurrying towards them with a letter in her hand. "This arrived, but nobody was there; they just slipped it under the door."

"Who delivers a letter this bloody late?" Nicolas asked, obviously annoyed at the notion. He grabbed it from her and shooed her away. He scanned the note quickly, his eyes widening.

"Damnation!" he roared.

"Nicolas, what is it?" Jean-Marie asked, a little frightened.

"Read this," he said, shoving the paper towards her.

_We have your son Claude. If you ever want to see him again, you will bring one hundred silver pieces to the south gate of the city tomorrow at sundown. If you try anything, we WILL kill him._

_JUSTICE FOR RONA!_

_-Anonymous_

Jean-Marie gasped and clutched her hand to her mouth, eyes beginning to well up with tears.

Her son...her only child being held for ransom, probably with a knife at his throat right now. He was knocking on heaven's door, should his captors feel less generous.

"It's those damn gypsies!" Nicolas bellowed.

Chokingly, Jean-Marie asked, "Nicolas, what are we going to do?"

Angrily, he replied, "I don't think the boy's going to be able to get out of this one on his own. I'm getting our son back, and I will make sure this kind of insubordination is never repeated. They'll regret ever challenging _my_ authority! There will be consequences…"

With that said, Nicolas stormed off to his study, locking the door behind him.

Jean-Marie picked up a rosary that lay on the parlor room table and held it tight.

_Please, Claude, _she prayed, _Come home safely. _She crossed herself and began to recite the Apostles' Creed, tearing streaming down her pale cheeks.

***Author's note: Credit for the plot courtesy of Tinsy-girl who has really helped with my writer's block; she's awesome, so big thanks girl! I'm trying to write more since I just finished with finals. What will little Frollo do? How will he escape? Who betrayed the gypsies?**


	10. Divine Intervention

_Perfect, _Claude thought. He had noticed a large bottle of oil resting on a shelf a couple of feet away. He listened first to his gypsy captors outside.

"Don't worry, he's not going anywhere. Let's just go!"

"Well, I guess a few drinks won't hurt. Besides, we are going to be rich in a couple of hours!"

The men laughed, their voices growing fainter, signaling Claude to seize this opportunity.

He reached his free arm forward, straining to reach the bottle on the shelf. He hoped that nobody would check up and find him trying to escape. Claude stretched his arm so far, he feared that he would dislocate something. But he had to.

His fingers were so close to the bottle. _Just a little further, _he encouraged himself, until he found the neck of the bottle in his fingertips.

_Yes!_

He pulled it towards him, millimeter by millimeter, until the bottle began to sway.

_Please don't fall. Please don't fall. Please. DON'T. FALL!_

In an attempt to finally bring it close enough, he clumsily pulled the bottle with too much force, sending it falling from its shelf. In a split second, the boy managed to catch it, only for it to slip back out of his hand.

_NO!_

He shut his eyes and waited to hear the sound of breaking glass…but heard nothing. He opened his eyes and thanked the lord that it had landed in a pile of rags below it.

Taking the bottle in his hand, he pulled the cork out with his teeth and dowsed his shackled hand with the oil.

He tugged his hand as hard as he could in the attempt to free himself, but struggled against the metal cuff.

_Come on, Claude!_ He commanded himself.

As he fought to get out, he could feel his hand slowly sliding out of the shackle.

_Almost got it!_

Through gritted teeth, he made one last strong pull, his hand flying back against him as it escaped the cold metal. Claude looked at his oily hand, impressed that the ploy actually proved successful.

Taking one of the rags, he cleaned the oil off and tiptoed to the front of the caravan and carefully peered through the curtain. He noticed that the day had grown quite late, evidencing that he had been out for hours. He tensed up when he saw a gypsy sitting near a campfire, figuring that the others had taken off to the tavern.

Time for phase two. Claude turned back and scanned around the inside for anything he could use as a weapon. At first, he didn't find anything that looked useful; the gypsies had deprived him of any instruments that he could have used to escape, as well. Then his eyes caught something: a single large pot. He picked it up and examined it, finding that it very strong and heavy.

_It's now or never, _he told himself. Taking a deep breath, he quietly opened the curtain and climbed out of the caravan, slowly making his way to the gypsy.

His heart beat wildly; he hadn't felt such a rush of adrenaline since he almost killed Martin a couple of months ago.

Claude stood behind the absentminded gypsy man, keeping his breathing low so not alert him. He raised the pot high in his hands and clamped his eyes shut…

_BAM!_

Claude opened his eyes and stared at the man, who lay face down with blood trailing out of the side of his head.

_Better him than you, _Claude thought.

"What was that?" The boy's ears perked up as he heard a man's voice. Tossing the pot aside, he took off in a sprint.

"It's that kid! Get him!" They shouted.

He didn't know where he was going, but he had to get away from them. He just had to get some distance between them.

After a few minutes of running, Claude stopped, needing to catch his breath. He looked around and saw that he was still in the dense forest.

_...I'm going to die out here, _he thought hopelessly. He slumped to the ground, his legs on fire from how far he ran.

He thought hard about this whole situation. Would anyone believe him at all that he had nothing to do with Rona's capture? What if Celeste believed this too? If nobody believed him, then they would just try and kill him again. There was so much riding on this now…

"Claude! Come back!" a man's voice called, the volume growing.

Claude sprang to his feet and ran without a second thought.

_Just keep running!_

"Wait! Stop!" the voice called. But Claude was too scared to stop and find out who it was.

_They'll kill me, just keep going!_ He thought about what would happen if he was captured again; what they might do; and who would suffer from his father's wrath afterwards.

He stopped before a great river that divided his path. However, a fallen tree trunk had created a makeshift bridge. It seemed risky but it didn't look like he had many options. He looked down at the river running before him, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

_You can do this, _he told himself. _It'll be over before you know it._

He exhaled and stepped onto the trunk and began to make his way to the other side, desperately trying to keep himself balanced. He looked down below him as he moved, anxiety growing with every step.

He had been so focused on looking at the water that he failed to keep himself steady. He felt his foot slip and he frantically fought against gravity to keep himself balanced...only to find himself plummeting downwards.

Claude screamed as he fell, crashing into the river and feeling its force pushing against him.

He flailed his arms, trying to pull himself up, but only succeeding in surfacing for a split second before the water claimed him again.

Claude felt himself sinking again, his eyes staring up at the sun shimmering down on him.

_This is the end, _he thought.

He could feel his oxygen supply wearing out and water entering through his nose. His head felt lighter and he could feel his body going numb, slowly sinking. In this weary moment, he remembered a lesson he once learned about the power of miracles, what they called "divine intervention."

_Please…Divine intervention, _he begged. _Divine…inter…vention…_

His eyes began to close, feeling his body letting go…

As if by some holy force, he barely felt as his limp body began ascending towards the surface, subconsciously assuming he was ascending to meet his maker.

The next thing he knew, he was gasping and coughing up all the water out of his lungs before his brain could even register what had just happened.

Barely conscious, Claude looked down, completely dumbfounded that he felt dirt and grass under his hands when moments ago he was heading towards a watery grave. He saw that he was soaked to the bone and shook his head, trying to bring himself back to reality.

A voice startled him. "Claude?" A man's voice.

He quickly turned his head, his eyes adjusting to look upon his savior. He couldn't believe it- it was Celeste's father!

"Claude? Can you hear me?"

Dazed, the boy replied, "Yes…yes, I-I can hear you. You…you saved me?"

The man nodded his head, evidenced by the fact that he was dripping with water as well.

"But…why?" Claude asked.

"Because I know that it wasn't you who did it. And besides, my daughter would be heartbroken if something happened to her best friend."

Claude gazed at the man, feeling relieved that at least someone didn't hold him accountable. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"Felix," he replied, Claude shaking his hand gratefully. "Now, let's get you home."

"What deal?" Claude asked as Felix helped him up.

"The group who took you was holding you for ransom. They were going to trade you off tonight," he explained as the two began making their way back down the trail.

"Ransom? Wait, how did you find me?"

"One of the women in the camp told me that they had captured you and where they were keeping you. I knew you were innocent and I couldn't let them get away with that. When I got there, you had already escaped and I wanted to help you get back home."

Claude couldn't believe that Felix had actually come back to save him…that's more than his own father had ever done for him.

"Felix," Claude began, the man turning his attention towards him. "You said you know you had Rona arrested. Who was it then?"

The man sighed, "An old lover of hers. You see, there was a man who begged her to marry him, but she turned him down. She never wanted to get married, but he was crazy about her. We all thought the he was over it…but sadly he wasn't."

Claude thought about this, strangely fascinated by this information. _All that trouble for a girl?_

Completely impulsive, Claude stated, "Marcel had me kidnapped."

Felix stared at the boy, perplexed. "Marcel? He's thirteen. Why would he want you kidnapped?" he asked, almost doubtfully.

"I don't know, but he just doesn't like me," Claude said.

"Rest assured, Claude. All those responsible will be dealt with. Now, we need to get you back before the deal happens. I have a feeling that your father will not be very merciful with his son's abductors."

* * *

Nicolas stood at the south gates of the city atop his menacing steed. Bacchus was black as ink and struck fear into anyone who looked up him, much like his master did. Nicolas waited impatiently for these crooks, growing more and more agitated by the minute.

Even though they had written him not to try anything, he figured that without a few tricks up his sleeve, how would anyone learn their place? A few soldiers lay in wait for his signal. This deed would not go unpunished…

He looked up and narrowed his eyes at three gypsies making their way towards him. However, he didn't see Claude with them…

"Where is my son?!" he demanded, his blood boiling.

They looked at each other nervously, one of them built up enough courage to face the minister. Nervously, he spoke. "Umm…you see, Your Honor. We…lost your son…"

Nicolas stared at these gypsies, seeing nothing but red.

"Seize them!" Just like that, soldiers surrounded the gypsies, locking them all in shackles and chains.

"You're all under arrest for kidnapping nobility and conspiracy against a public official!" Nicolas stated, glaring at each one with intense hate.

* * *

"I see them!" Claude exclaimed as they neared the gates.

"You have to hurry then!" Felix said. "I have to go back to the camp and find the man responsible for all of this. Now go!" Sending the boy hurrying towards the confrontation.

As he drew closer, Claude could see his father pointing towards the band of gypsies and surrounding them with soldiers.

_Hurry! _He told himself.

"You're all under arrest for kidnapping nobility and conspiracy against a public official!" Nicolas stated with pure anger in his voice.

"Wait!" Claude shouted, rushing towards Nicolas. Everyone's heads turned to see this prodigal son approaching.

"Claude?" His father asked, stunned to see him here now, covered with dirt and sporting a few bruises.

"Father, please! This is all just a misunderstanding!" he tried to explain, looking up at his father.

"I see," he replied, tonelessly. "A 'misunderstanding,' then?" He looked at the prisoners again before saying, "Take them away!"

"What?!" Claude's eyes widened in fear.

"Misunderstanding or not, Claude, these people have broken the law and repercussions must be met. In this case…_dire _consequences." Nicolas turned to one of his men, "Take my son home, and make sure nothing happens to him!"

As he was taken away, Claude looked back at the group being led back to the Palace of Justice to face these "dire consequences."

He returned home to find Jean-Marie in the parlor room, completely distraught and gripping a rosary in her hand. Her eyes were bright red from crying; her once-perfect blonde locks falling into disarray; and her hands trembled furiously.

"Mother?" he addressed, cutting the silence of the room like a knife.

Her gaze shot forward and she looked as though she had just witnessed the second coming. She rushed forward and locked her son in a tight embrace, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Thank God you've returned!" she cried, clutching him tightly, as though fearful that he would disappear again.

Claude was left at a loss for words upon seeing his mother's emotional state at his return. Nevertheless, he hugged her back, grateful to be home, but still worried.

For the rest of the night, he couldn't shake the feelings over what had happened. As he lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, all he could think about was how he might have unintentionally damned a few people, sending them to face the monster of his father.

_But it's not your fault, _he thought. _They should have let it go when Rona died. They should have believed me! None of this had to happen._

He didn't ask for Rona to get arrested; for them not to listen to him; or for them to abduct him.

Then another thought occurred to him: _It's Marcel's fault. All of it: he had me captured, and now people are going to die for it…_

_Let them._

Claude fell asleep, comforted by these absolving thoughts.

* * *

The next day, Claude ventured back to the gypsy camp to hear about the situation was with Rona's traitor. But he was disappointed to hear that the man had run away, escaping any retribution. However, Celeste told him that they were questioning Marcel about Claude's accusation of masterminding his kidnapping.

"I can't stay long, Celeste," he explained. "I have to be somewhere." Leaving without another word, back to the city.

Half of Paris was gathered in the square, all eyes upon the Minister of Justice as he read the crimes committed by these "heathen scum."

At first, Claude saw the three arrested making their way to the top of the platform, but was surprised when a fourth man was led up as well.

"This man," Nicolas spoke, pointing to the mystery man. "Betrayed his own kind, allowing us to arrest the gypsy witch Rona, all for a few silver pieces. Only to be caught days later stealing from a fellow public official!"

The executioner placed a noose around each neck, the crowd booing and hurling insults, except for Claude, who remained silent.

"Let this be a lesson to all who even_ think_ about challenging the authority of the city. There will be no tolerance whatsoever! May God have mercy on their souls!"

With a single pull, each platform released, snapping all four of their necks. Paris cheered wildly, with the minister reveling in their approval.

_Maybe next time they blame me for something, they'll think again, _Claude thought.

He didn't feel an ounce of pity anymore, instead smiling at this hollow victory.

***Author's note: I know this is a much longer chapter, but Tinsy-girl's idea really hit it off with me and I ran with it. (I was inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean for Frollo's escape plan.) Now we can see Frollo developing his fierce cunning and apathy...but doesn't show to be much of a swimmer. You may condemn me for getting lazy with the real traitor part. I'm thinking of skipping over about a year or two soon. These last few chapters have just been super bitter, not that I'm saying that they're not fun to write, but I kind of want to get back to the budding relationship between Claude and Celeste. Like I said, if there's anything you guys would like to see, please let me know and I'll see what I can do! Reviews are greatly appreciated.**


	11. A Twist of Fate

At first the gypsies mourned over the loss of their friends who had been sentenced to death, but then they celebrated the fact that the traitor named Emile had died with them. At the camp, the men and women drank while children danced to joyful music.

"I don't remember seeing many gypsies at the execution," Claude commented. Celeste shot him a questioning look as though asking what he was doing there.

"My father made me go," he stated.

"Well, it wasn't like we could. The town square wouldn't be a good place for us to be if they were hanging four of our kind." Celeste explained.

"So none of you went?" Claude questioned. "Then how did you hear about the execution?"

"There's gypsies hiding everywhere; at least one of us could sneak in and catch a glimpse of it."

_Just a glimpse, _he thought.

Celeste encouraged her friend to join in the celebration, but he couldn't help but feel like something was going on…

* * *

Since the execution, the people of Paris had been much more hostile to the gypsies; many saying that Emile's betrayal for a bit of cash demonstrated a lack of loyalty towards anyone, including their own kind. More were losing work and having to turn to peddling and stealing.

Celeste found less time to spend with Claude, since the family could not afford such leisure time on her part. Nevertheless, they still tried to maintain a positive attitude.

Claude found himself wandering the streets aimlessly, bored yet plagued by thoughts of something or someone hiding the whole truth about Emile the traitor. For hours, he walked around the city until the day grew late and he realized where he was: the red-light district.

He was in the dirtiest, most sleazy part of Paris where the beggars dwelled. The place was known as the "Devil's hole" and notorious not only for its countless brothels, but as well as its black markets that even the minister struggled to contain. Claude had been here before, last time about a year ago when his father said he had "matters to attend to" with a certain "Madame Florika." He was forced to wait outside for a couple of hours, completely unaware of what these "matters" were.

He turned around to start his way back home. In the middle of his journey, he heard a man's voice call out to him, "Hey kid!"

Curiosity getting the better of him, made him turn around instead of ignoring him and walking away as he would have normally. He saw a young beggar and another sitting near a campfire.

"Why don't you sit a spell?" he offered. Against his better judgment, Claude complied. As he sat down, the man asked, "What bring you to this neck of the woods?"

Keeping his guard up, Claude vaguely answered, "Just needed to clear my head." He kept his hand ready to reach for the dagger that Nicolas had given him, in case of another "incident." The man noticed this and said, "Ease up, kid. We're just talking."

Claude pretended to relax, but kept alert, especially since the other person the man referred to was a silent hooded figure.

"Now sir," the young man said, turning to the other. "What were you saying?"

The man lowered his hood…a gypsy man, whose face was adorned with scars and a bushy, unkempt beard. He spoke, "I was saying that I was able to earn some good money with Minister Frollo's help."

Claude tensed up upon hearing his family's name. "What do you mean?" He questioned.

The gypsy man glanced at him. "Well, first of all, we all know how hard it is being a Romani under Frollo's rule. So I had to make sure my nose was clean before approaching him. I got this great idea at the Feast of Fools to use his prejudice for my own benefit. But first let me give you some background information…"

The beggar and Claude leaned forward, listening attentively.

"You see, years ago I _begged _the woman I loved to be mine. But the bitch said no! Do you know what that does to a man?!"

"I think we've all been there, old boy," the beggar commented.

"So anyway, for years I was angry and wanted to see her suffer, just like I did. I just had to wait for the right moment. And voilà! The Festival of Fools gave me just that!

"She had been dancing like a harlot there, with all eyes upon her. Wouldn't you know it, so is our beloved gypsy-hating Judge Frollo! He saw the whole thing! It was lucky that he thought she was some kind of witch too, especially with that big smoke bomb finale!"

Claude remembered his father's face that day: full of shock…fear of this she-devil.

The man continued, "So he goes turning the city upside down looking for her and I see that as the perfect opportunity to make her pay. I went to the Palace of Justice and told them that I had valuable information. Of course, Frollo wouldn't listen at first, calling me "another deceitful gypsy cur" or something like that. I told him I knew where the gypsy "sorceress" was hiding. ..._T__hen _he showed interest.

"At first, he threatened to beat the information out of me, but I told him I would reveal where she was…for a price."

Nicolas had told the crowd the exact same thing on the day of the hanging…

Was _this _Emile, back from the dead?

"You wouldn't believe how happy I was to watch that whore burn before the entire city!"

The other two took a moment to digest this information.

"They said they executed you," Claude said suddenly, causing the two men to turn around and look at him with surprise.

"Yeah, I heard that too," said the beggar.

Suddenly the gypsy erupted in laughter, leaving the two to exchange confused looks.

"They hanged a different man! Under _my_ name!" he said, laughing wildly. "Frollo let me walk away- completely invisible, if it meant he could fake my death to use as a scare tactic against the public! I mean, whoever they hanged was probably already in hot water for something else, so who knows, right? And besides, I got my revenge and made some decent money off the whole deal too!"

The young beggar then said, "Well, a man's got to do what he's got to do; you have to survive."

So Emile was living as a ghost, walking away from his crime without any punishment whatsoever.

Emile looked at young Claude and said, "Remember this, kid: the ends _always _justify the means."

Claude pondered the man's words and asked, "You went to all that trouble…just for a girl?"

"Believe me, kid. No man ever gets a woman with honesty. If it ain't for money or status…it's blackmail. I don't know why we go to such pains for these creatures- they only bring suffering, yet we always find ourselves crawling back for more!"

"So if you can't make a woman love you, you have her killed?" the boy asked.

"That's one way of looking at it," the young man interjected. "At least you walked away scot-free!"

"Justice in the modern world!" Emile agreed. "Now I'm just carrying on, completely worry-free here!"

The men shared in their laughs, but Claude knew what had to be done. Standing up, he said, "I think I should be going."

The two laughed and nodded farewell. Emile called after the boy as he left, "Nice talking to you!"

* * *

"I see him!" Claude whispered, pointing at Emile stumbling out of a dirty tavern.

"That's him alright," Felix said, surprised.

When Claude had come to them earlier saying how Emile was alive and hiding, even Celeste had difficulty believing her friend. Now here they were, staking out the red-light district from behind buildings and seeing this specter walking around, unaware of the pain he had caused so many. Claude had snuck out to accompany them tonight.

Claude felt sheer animosity for this man. If it wasn't for Emile, none of this would have happened. The gypsies' endangerment, Rona's death, Claude's kidnapping, the execution… All of it, his fault. It made him even angrier with the fact that anyone who could verify Marcel's involvement with Claude's abduction had been taken to the gallows.

"I'm sorry for not believing you, Claude," Celeste whispered.

"That's alright," he said back.

"Kids, I want you to get back to the camp," Felix ordered, his eyes narrowed towards the drunken Emile.

"What? But Father, why?" asked Celeste.

"I have some unfinished business with our "friend" Emile."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Claude grabbed her arm and shook his head, understanding where Felix was coming from, and motioned for her to leave. Celeste gave a worried look at her father, then followed the boy.

As they made their way out of the district, Celeste said, "He's going to do something wrong." Her voice was full of sorrow.

"Look on the bright side," Claude said. "At least no one will care if one poor gypsy dies here. So your father is going to be fine."

She gave him a look, as if insulted, before asking, "Would you?"

Claude was stunned at this; it surprised him that in the past few they were friends, nobody have ever questioned his relationship with the gypsies. Let alone if he cared.

The only way he could respond to this question was, "It depends on the gypsy."

Celeste turned away, Claude following her closely.

"And by the way, Claude, thanks for finding Emile," she said.

"Pretty lucky, huh?"

"Trust me, by the end of the night, everyone's going to love you! And nobody will blame you for what happened to Aunt Rona anymore."

"Loved by the gypsies? Me?" he questioned, smirking at her. "Let's wait and see."

* * *

The two sat inside Celeste's caravan, waiting for Felix to return. She expressed her concern over what her father might do.

René poked his inside and exclaimed, "Celeste! Come out here!"

The kids rushed outside and saw the entire camp gathering. Making their way forward, they were relieved to see that Felix had returned, but his shirt was covered with blood.

"Father! What happened?" Celeste asked frantically.

"Claude was right: Emile managed to slip away and was hiding right under our noses. And I couldn't let him get away with this."

Everyone stare at him in amazement, scared at what he was implying.

"Now he's paid for his crime."

The silence was overwhelming…

"JUSTICE!" Someone shouted.

And just like that, the camp erupted in applause and jubilation, elation over Felix's vigilantism.

True enough, many had given their sincerest apologies for their false accusations against Claude. Marcel however looked at him without a smidgen of regret, Claude returning this bitter glare.

_It's not over, _he thought to himself.

Maybe one day he'd find out what Marcel had against him. But right now he didn't care.

At least these gypsies had learned to think twice before accusing him of something.

He was broken from these thoughts when he felt himself socked in the arm, turning around to see Celeste smiling at him. At least there was one person he could count on.

***Author's note: I know it sounds like it's the end, but IT'S NOT! But I am going to skip like 2 years, making Frollo about 13 because he was 11 by this point. Plus I want to develop his relationship with Celeste. **

**I wasn't particularly happy with how I ended the last chapter so I spent all day writing this. Hope it's good. This chapter was specially made for shennyfac31** **who inspired me to add some twists and turns to make up for the lame ending! Plus we see how Frollo got the idea of how to get women...by threatening her with death. **

**Happy Holidays everyone!**


	12. Party Animal

**Two years later…**

The past couple of years had been kind to the kids. It had been almost three years since Celeste first met Claude, when he was skinny and bruised like a peach whenever she slugged him in the arm. Now, Claude's practice at sword-fighting and horseback riding had led him to develop quite a bit of strength and muscle for a thirteen year old. Celeste's chest was filling and she trailed behind him only by about an inch, but could easily match his strength and excelled in parkour, which he was still trying to get the hang of.

Since he turned thirteen, Claude no longer fell victim to his father's physical punishment, only his "verbal encouragement." Nicolas was quick to turn his son's combat and riding skills into a bragging right.

Many found if they weren't impressed by these skills, they were intimidated by the boy's fierce intelligence. Some called him a genius, others a "demon in an angel's body." Claude had quickly learned to master psychological warfare, using it to pinpoint others' weaknesses before destroying their spirit. The boy was turning into a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

Sitting on the parapet of the bridge, Claude absentmindedly chucked small rocks into the Seine. He sat here whenever he had too much on his mind or didn't want to think at all.

"Real mature," He turned around to see Celeste walking over to him before going back to such mundane activity. "Still upset?" She asked.

He replied, "Not upset, just…annoyed," throwing another rock.

"I see," she said, picking up a couple of rocks herself and joining in. "Always something bothering you, isn't there?"

"Only when I get forced into doing something as meaningless as attending another party. Whenever I go, I just stand around waiting to leave," he explained cynically.

Celeste sighed. "Get over it, Claude. You've been to these things about a hundred times; one more won't kill you."

Claude rolled his eyes at the remark, throwing another rock high over his head.

"I told you before, Claude: you need to lighten up." She chided.

"Celeste, you've been telling me that since we were eleven. Besides, if I did, I might end up as empty-headed as Marcel," he commented.

Celeste chuckled at this; for the past two years she had been trying to get the boys to cease their animosity towards each other, but her endeavors proved fruitless. Claude had never quite forgiven Marcel for "tempting" him into stealing, and especially not for having him kidnapped and held for ransom. However, Celeste had never quite understood why Marcel held showed such bitterness towards Claude, refusing to elaborate whenever she asked about it. At this point, she had decided to just let the two hate each other if they wanted.

"So you're telling me that you've never enjoyed one of these parties? _Ever?_" she asked.

Claude shook his head without even looking at her. "They're more for my father to drink with his associates while my mother makes me talk to people I don't know about things I don't care about."

"I can tell you're very popular at these things," Celeste remarked sarcastically, prompting him to scoff at this. "You know, you should keep an open mind to these things. If you did, you might actually have a good time. Who knows? You might actually have fun at this one."

"I highly doubt it."

She shook her head at him. "You're impossible, you know that?" she said half-seriously.

He replied, "Tell me something I don't know."

Punching him in the arm, she then said, "You need to stop being so negative!" which he smirked at.

* * *

Claude stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down as his parents were preparing to leave.

"Father, are you sure I can't just stay home tonight?" he asked.

Nicolas sighed. "Stop your griping, Claude. And no, you cannot. Unfortunately Reneaux highly values family, which means you _have _to go."

Claude rolled his eyes and made his way downstairs, simply "overjoyed" at the notion of going. Jean-Marie attempted to smooth out his hair, only for him to gently bat her hand away. "I look fine, Mother!" he protested.

_Time to get this night over with, _he thought, following his parents out to leave.

Even the large manor hosting the ball was not enough to impress the boy. It simply made him think, _Great. A bigger house means more people, which means a longer time here. Let the torture begin._

Outside in the courtyard, Claude stood on the outside of all the commotion, watching as the guests carried on, having a good time. He looked on as Nicolas laughed and chatted away with his fellow ministers and officials. Claude figured that if he made himself scarce, the night would be more bearable.

"Claude!"

He turned around and saw his mother heading towards him, accompanied by a tall man and young girl about his age with chestnut brown hair, no doubt his daughter.

"Claude, you remember Lord Reneaux, attendant to the king, right?" Jean-Marie asked.

Putting on a false smile, he politely greeted the man, "Of course. Good evening, your lordship."

"Good evening, young man," he replied. "It's a pleasure to have the Frollo family in attendance to tonight's ball. Have you met my daughter, Beátrice?" Motioning to the girl by his side, who stared at Claude interestedly.

"I haven't. Hello miss," he said to her. The etiquette he was wasting was almost painful.

"Nice to meet you," she replied.

"Well then," Jean-Marie said. "Lord Reneaux, perhaps we should let these two get acquainted?"

"Splendid idea," he replied. With that, the two adults left Claude alone with Beátrice.

_Oh God, not again,_ he thought.

"So…Claude? What do you like to do?" she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing. Study; practice combat," he answered plainly.

"Are you enjoying the party?"

"Not really. I never like coming to these things."

"Why not?"

"They don't interest me."

"Do you like _anything_?" she asked annoyed at his ambiguity.

"Just the things I said before, but I don't like a lot of things."

Beátrice looked at him as though as was a lunatic. "You know, you're not very interesting to talk to."

"So I've heard," he said uncaringly.

"Not like this one boy I met; he talked about his travels, which was fascinating to listen to…"

The girl droned on about many "more interesting boys", Claude hardly listening as he forced himself to endure her presence. Every ball he attended, his mother always tried to get him to warm up to some noble's daughter who he might be willing to marry later on, much to his chagrin.

"…so maybe I should choose him to marry," Beátrice said, concluding another tale. "You need to learn to have fun."

Claude nodded. "I know. Now if you're done talking and criticizing me, I'm going to go," walking away from the girl, who looked at him strangely.

He made his way across the throng of party-goers, not even noticing the band, who was setting up for their performance, to the other side of the courtyard and finding an empty bench to sit down on.

"Pssst!"

He decided to ignore it and stared at the ground, trying to block out any more annoyances.

"Claude!"

He looked up. "What are _you _doing here?" he asked surprised, jumping to his feet.

"It turns out this Lord Reneaux guy loves gypsy music and offered us a nice reward for playing tonight." Celeste explained.

"That's great!" he said happily.

"Claude!" a strong voice bellowed. He turned around and saw his father striding towards him, looking suspiciously at him. "What are you doing talking to this gypsy trash?"

Claude froze, trying to think of something say, but was coming up short on an explanation.

He looked at Celeste. He nervously tried to speak. "I…I just…"

"Forgive me, Minister Frollo," Celeste began. "I was just asking your son a question. I meant no harm."

"Very well," he said, glaring at her. He looked to his son. "Be careful with their kind, Claude. It sickens me that Lord Reneaux could even invite this riffraff as entertainment to such an event, but we must endure as guests," before walking away.

Exhaling, Claude turned to Celeste. "Thanks for the help."

"No problem. I know he'd kill you for willingly talking to such "riffraff" like me."

"Sorry about that."

"It's alright. You know, we don't perform for quite some time. You want to go for a walk?" she asked.

"Anything to get away from this," he said, taking the lead.

Claude and Celeste walked away from the party and made their way to the manor's garden.

"So," Celeste began. "Enjoying the party?" she asked sarcastically.

Claude scoffed at this. "Of course," he replied in the same tone. "My favorite part was my mother forcing me to try and court the lord's daughter, who wouldn't stop talking. Then she "kindly" told me how enjoyable I was to talk to."

Celeste began laughing at him.

"It's not funny!" he argued, "She said that I need to "learn how to have fun"!" He explained, crossing his arms in annoyance.

"Oh, come on, Claude! I always tell you that and you still haven't learned," she said patting him on the shoulder.

"Well to "lighten up" is not exactly my _forte_," he said bitterly, looking up at the night sky.

"Believe me, I know," she replied teasingly. "So you haven't had any fun at all tonight?"

"Not until you showed up," he said sincerely.

Celeste blushed at this. "Well, still you should work on your people skills and stop being so shy around girls."

He looked at her. "As long as I have you around, I don't care what any other girl thinks of me."

"Very charming, Claude. From what I've heard, you really know how to win a girl's affections." She looked at the star-filled sky too.

Claude chuckled at this, feeling relieved to have someone to share in his use of sarcasm and not finding it narcissistic or rude like others.

"So, just to be sure, you haven't had any fun whatsoever tonight?" She asked, moving towards him.

"Not really," he said, facing her. "But why does that-"

He was paralyzed, taking a moment to comprehend what was happening: Celeste stood before him…with her lips pressed against his. He couldn't believe it!

The world seemed to stop and he could feel his heart racing, threatening to jump out of his chest.

All too quickly, Celeste pulled away and looked at her shocked friend. She then asked, "What about now?"

Claude stared at her, his eyes wide. "Umm…" He was at a loss for words, glancing around. But he managed to spit out a response: "Is that what you mean by "lighten up"?"

Smiling, she shook her head and replied, "I think we should get back to the party."

Claude followed her silently, a grin etching across his face.

His first kiss…

Celeste bid him goodbye before rejoining her family and striking up the band, the guests enamored by their sound.

For the rest of the party, Claude couldn't stop smiling, even when Jean-Marie or Nicolas forced him to converse with more strangers.

Noticing his expression, Jean-Marie asked as soon as they returned home, "Did you enjoy the party, Claude?"

"Very much," he replied.

***Author's note: Frollo really doesn't like parties, does he? And he's a real ladies' man, isn't he?**

** So I decided to skip some time and focus on the kids as they got older and develop their relationship. We've experience a lot of heartache throughout the last chapters so kill me if I wanted to add another sappy, emotional chapter.**

**To make things clear, the events of the last chapter took place months after the two met, so they were eleven at the time. I know in chapter 3 Frollo was ten, but I just wanted to verify the time change. (Yes, I can do simple math.)**

**Here we get to see Frollo's disdain for people has really grown, so has his sarcasm and bitterness. At least we get to see some more emotional growth.**


	13. Boys Will Be Boys

"'_When Delilah saw that he had told her everything, she sent word to the rulers of the Philistines,'_" Celeste read aloud from Claude's book. They sat in the gypsy camp as Claude listened to her as she recited these stories.

At eleven, Celeste had come forth and asked her friend to teach her to read, which he was happy to help with most days after school. Claude always picked out a random chapter of the Bible to help her practice, and she had made a lot of progress since they began their lessons.

She continued, "…'"_Come back once more, he has told me everything." So the rulers of the Philistines returned with the silver in their hands.'_"

He enjoyed listening to her as she practiced her reading; however, his patience was much lower when it came to helping Celeste with her handwriting. But he managed to keep his temper in check, reminding himself that it was worth it.

Claude listened as she read the rest of the story. "_'…But the hair on his head began to grow again after it had been shaved.'_"

"Very good," he said.

"Thanks," she said, handing him back his book.

"Celeste, you didn't tell anyone what happened what happened at the party, did you?" he asked nervously.

"Don't worry about it. I only told René because he's my brother, but I made him swear not to tell my parents."

Claude raised an eyebrow at this statement. "What makes you so sure that he won't go and tell them?"

She crossed her arms at him and his paranoia. "Trust me, Claude. I've kept enough secrets for him where he wouldn't _dare_ tell our parents. So stop your worrying already!"

Claude curled his lip at her. He was always sure that there was something more to what a person told him; therefore, he always kept his guard up. That way, he was never fully surprised when things took an unexpected turn.

"I'll try," he falsely promised. "Anyway, I must be on my way." He said, standing up and collecting his things and beginning to walk away.

"See you, Claude. I'll see you tomorrow."

He nodded farewell to her and made his way out of the gypsy camp.

_He's probably told someone else by now,_ Claude thought. René had proven himself to be a loyal friend, but something wasn't registering right. Claude knew that René's best friend was Marcel, and odds are he would tell his pal everything- especially something as scandalous as this. So who knows what could happen?

_As if you needed another reason to avoid that moron,_ he thought. Claude was already walking on eggshells since Celeste kissed him the other night, hoping that none of her family would find out. Now he would just have to be extra careful.

"_Oof!"_ Like so many times before, Claude found himself pinned to the ground, this time with the attacker's arms around his throat.

"I'm gonna kill you, Frollo!" A familiar voice threatened as he wrestled with him.

"Let go of me, Marcel!" Claude attempted to pry off the boy's arms, but he was too strong. At fifteen, Marcel had already developed much more defined muscle than Claude, and without the help of such "refined" activities.

Still trying to escape, Claude pulled at Marcel's arms long enough to take in more air, only to be constricted again. Through gritted teeth and limited air, he said, "What did I do to _you_?!"

"You know damn well what you did!" he growled, gripping his hold on the boy's throat tighter.

_Do something! _He told himself.

Claude quickly elbowed Marcel hard in the stomach, causing him to lose his grip. He scurried away from the older boy and stood above him.

"What is wrong with you?!" he asked angrily. "Why are you trying to kill me?"

Panting, Marcel still managed to spit out a response. "What…you did…to Celeste…"

_Please don't referring to the "incident," _he prayed.

Through feigned innocence, he replied, "I don't know what you're talking about, Marcel." Hoping that Marcel would bring up any other situation that he could be blamed for.

"You kissed her! At that party!" Marcel's face was filled with fury and turning an intense red,. "René told me!"

_Damn you, René!_

Still, Claude was a little surprised at this; Marcel was going to kill him for _that_?

He rolled his eyes at the teen picking himself up. "Marcel, Celeste kissed _me_. I'm not sure why, but she did. Understand? And it was completely unexpected! Why are you so upset about this?"

_And let it be a good reason…_

Marcel looked away, his unruly black curls falling in front of his eyes. A sullen expression fell over his face. "Because," he began. "Why did it have to be _you_? Why couldn't it have been _me?_"

"Please, Marcel. You're not saying what I _think_ you're saying, right?" he commented.

Marcel glared at him with growing hate. _If looks could kill, right?_

"You don't hold feelings for Celeste…do you?" Claude asked.

Still casting his scowl at the younger boy, Marcel then said, "Of course I do."

Claude felt a shiver run through him. "You…do?" he asked, hoping his statement was simply sarcasm.

Marcel nodded his head then looked away. "Yes. I have for a long time."

_Maybe that's why he despises you, _Claude thought.

"And then," Marcel continued. "I see the way she looks at you…And I don't get it."

Now he anticipated at any given moment, Marcel could pounce and murder him in cold blood.

"Why does she even like you?!" he cried, his voice filled with jealousy.

Claude stared at him as though he was caught facing a rabid animal. One bad move could be the decider between life and death. This whole situation was overwhelming, and he had no idea how to handle this. But how was a person _supposed_ to react to something like this?

He figured, _Maybe you should just let him vent…then you can walk away._

"I just don't understand it," Marcel conveyed. "I've known Celeste all our lives, you've only known her a couple of years. And yet all she talks about is _you_! "Claude this," "Claude that," all the time! Why?!" The boy's breath became shallow by the resentment building up inside him.

Claude decided that he had had enough of this. "I don't know Marcel," he said. "Maybe Celeste thinks you're an _idiot_! You steal, you made _me_ steal, and you almost had me _killed_! Maybe she also thinks that you're completely insane!"

Marcel cast him an insulted look, as though he was ready to rip him apart. "Well even if that _is_ true, that shouldn't mean that she should like _you_," he argued. "Trouble follows you like a shadow, Claude. You _and _your father have always given the gypsies nothing but hell for as long as I've known you."

Claude stopped and thought about this for a moment.

Marcel had a point: it seemed like he always had a way of unintentionally making life more difficult for Celeste and her people.

"You're right," he said. Marcel was surprised at the admittance.

He wondered, why did Celeste continue their friendship if he was such a jinx? Why hadn't she gotten the nerve to abandon him?

"Just remember, Frollo," Marcel said tauntingly. "One day, Celeste is going to get sick of dealing with all the things you've put her through."

"Maybe," Claude replied, still contemplating. "But if you keep acting like a deranged ass, she'll eventually leave you too."

Marcel was fuming at this remark, and out of nowhere, he leaped forward and tackled Claude to the ground again, putting him in another fierce chokehold.

Instinctively, Claude probably would have elbowed him in the stomach again, but now he just wanted to hurt Marcel. Balling his hand into a fist, Claude knew exactly how to do it…

Marcel released the boy, his face growing red again. Falling to his side, he grabbed at his lower region, shaking from the pain.

Scrambling to get up, Claude looked at his enemy with pure ruthlessness as he watched him cry from the pain below his belt before gathering his belongings and taking off in another direction.

Yes, it was a dirty move to hit someone in the groin during a fight, but he had to do it to escape. He just hoped that he hit Marcel with enough force for him to never have children.

Claude ran far enough before he finally made it safely to the square.

_Now what? _He thought. He wanted to find Celeste and tell her about what just happened.

But more, importantly, he wanted to know why...why she stuck around for the last few years if all he brought was sorrow.

Looking up at the sky, and how it was growing darker, he realized these questions would have to wait.

_Tomorrow,_ he thought.

* * *

"Claude, what's wrong?" Celeste asked as her friend wordlessly pulled her away. She noticed how downcast he looked. It was one thing that he was always moody, but he seldom looked so depressed.

He led her to the other side of the bridge, far from the rest of her family. "I need to ask you about something," he said.

"What is it?"

_Here it goes…_"Why are you my friend?"

Celeste was taken aback by the question. It was just like when she asked him whether or not he cared about gypsies years ago. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, my father and I have brought you and your family nothing but suffering. So I have to ask, why do continue to be my friend?"

Taking a moment, she replied, "I don't know."

Claude's heart sank. _Did she feel obligated to?_

"Maybe because there's something unique about you, Claude."

He looked at her with surprise.

"You know, you're unlike anybody I've ever met, Claude," she continued. A relieved smile played at his lips upon hearing these words.

"Really?" he asked, intrigued.

She nodded her head. "And I think you have a good heart. I don't know what it is, but I know you have something really special about you."

"So you have expectations?" he asked.

"I have a feeling you're going to do something that's going to really make a difference in someone's life."

He was amazed at this; it was one thing that his parents expected him to have a high-status place in society, but it was something completely different for another person to think he would be capable of great things.

_Make a difference in someone's life…_The words hit home.

"Maybe this is why I love having you as a friend, Celeste," he expressed.

"Why's that?"

"You know me better than anyone." Then he wondered whether or not it was worth telling her about the discussion with Marcel.

Was it worth it for him to add more fuel to the fire? To reveal Marcel's true feelings for his friend? He definitely didn't want to put Celeste in such an awkward position.

_Maybe you should just let things be, _he thought. Still, Marcel was right: if Claude wasn't careful, he could ruin his whole friendship with Celeste.

_Just watch your back._

***Author's note: Took me forever but I was finally able to make a real chapter out of this idea. Now we see why Marcel hates Frollo so much. Jealous! I hate that it's leaning towards young love as a theme, but it works. Only Frollo would use a dirty move like a nutshot. I like the story of Samson and Delilah, and there's something about Frollo and how he sees women as temptresses later on seemed fitting.**

**I need to brainstorm for more ideas, but I have few in store.**


	14. Nobody's Fault

"Celeste, where's your brother?" Claude asked casually upon entering the gypsy camp.

She was stitching up a shirt when she looked up at him and replied, "I saw him leaving with Marcel that way" nodding in the direction of the road.

"Thank you," he said in a strangely calm voice. "There's something I'd like to discuss with the _both_ of them." His lips turning in a lopsided smirk.

There was something unsettling about Claude's collected demeanor at times. Celeste knew that it was one thing when he was angry or distressed because she knew how to handle it. But when he was composed, Claude Frollo was capable of anything.

"Claude," she said, grabbing his wrist. "Please don't do anything stupid." Her words echoing his father's tired-out warning.

He nodded in understanding. In his defense, he didn't go looking for trouble; it just always seemed to find him.

When he found the two, he would show them that he was not one to take sabotage lightly.

Walking down the path, Claude thought to himself, _René simply needs to be reminded of the sanctity of keeping secrets. _Even if that meant his "best friend" Marcel needed to be taken down a peg as well.

He heard a couple of voices chattering, boys' voices. Claude headed in the direction, his jaw set and ready for a fight.

He found René and Marcel standing around idly and having a conversation, until the former caught sight of the younger boy and began looking a bit nervous.

"Hello René," Claude greeted in an eerily stoic voice, causing Marcel to turn around at his voice.

"Hey Claude," René said shakily, his friend narrowing his eyes at the Frollo boy.

Placing his hands behind his back, Claude walked forward with a sort of cockiness illuminating from him.

"So," he began. "I understand that you don't quite grasp the concept of keeping a secret," his eyes darting towards Marcel and back to René. "Do you?"

"Claude, look. Celeste just told me not to tell our parents." René protested, stepping closer to him. "That was the deal."

"Hmm," Claude stayed cool. "So you thought that telling_ him_ was a good idea then?"

"Well, I didn't think-"

Claude gripped René by the front of his shirt and looked at him with fierce intensity. "He tried to _kill_ me! All because you couldn't keep your mouth shut, René!"

"Claude, let him go!" Marcel ordered, aggravated by the assault on his friend.

Glaring at Marcel, Claude released René, who scrambled off to the side. Forgetting about keeping calm, he said, "You might want to reconsider attacking me Marcel." Claude's left hand clutched at a concealed dagger.

Marcel snorted at this threat. "Please Claude. Even I know you don't have the nerve to use something like that. So why don't you just put that thing away and get out of here before you get hurt."

Claude gritted his teeth and he held the knife tighter. "You don't think I would, Marcel? You underestimate me?"

Marcel laughed. "Of course you won't!"

"Really? I almost killed another boy with my bare hands when I was ten. You'd be no different…"

René sprung to his feet and blocked Claude as he tried to lunge at Marcel, dagger ready to kill.

"Come on, Frollo!" He egged him on. "You want to do it? Do it!"

René struggled to restrain Claude as he fought to attack Marcel. Claude's face was filled with hate-fueled bloodlust, frantically trying to inflict upon a deserving victim.

"Claude! Calm down!" René pleaded. "You need to-!"

Marcel's jaw dropped and Claude looked down: His hand still wrapped around the dagger…which was lodged in René's abdomen.

Panicking, Claude yanked out the knife fiercely and examined its crimson-stained blade. René noticed as well, his eyes rolling back and his body going limp.

Marcel rushed to him, trying to help him up. Furrowing his brow at Claude, he screamed, "Look what you did!" He wrapped René's arm over his shoulder and attempted to help him stand up. "Don't just stand there, help me!"

Sheathing the knife and without another thought, Claude took René's other arm as the three made their way back to the camp.

"Nice going, Frollo," Marcel bitterly remarked.

Anger coursing through his veins, Claude desperately wanted to take the knife and slit Marcel's throat right then and there, but could not with such circumstances at hand.

No one said anything as they made their way back up the road. Upon entering the camp, the boys were met with gasps and cries.

Felix emerged from the caravan, followed by Celeste and her mother, all three rushed to René. Felix looked at Claude and Marcel and furiously asked, "What happened?!"

"It was all Claude's fault!" Marcel pointed. "He threatened me then he stabbed René!"

Celeste looked up from her brother's wounded body, her bright brown eyes filled with disappointment and resentment. "Claude, is that true?"

"Celeste, please, let me explain," he begged, his hands trembling.

"Felix!" her mother interrupted. "René needs help! We need to get him back to the Court!"

"We will!" he replied, picking up his son in his strong arms and followed some more gypsies back to the caravan to fetch some supplies before heading off.

Celeste stared icily at her friend before sternly telling him, "Go home, Claude."

He was momentarily taken aback at this command. "Celeste, please. Just let me-"

"Now!" she ordered, fighting back tears.

Claude glanced around to see the other gypsies in the camp scowling at him. Not wishing to do any further damage, he turned around and reluctantly left.

On the way home, Claude didn't know how to feel; He didn't know if he should be angry, depressed, or anything at all.

Part of him was remorseful that he could have killed René, who didn't deserve it. Another was regretful that it wasn't Marcel that the knife pierced. But he was also scared that this would be the last straw for Celeste, and all because Marcel was so quick to accuse him that he didn't even get a chance to give his side of the story.

As he walked further, the knife in its sheath bounced against him, as though a grim reminder of what was at stake.

* * *

The dungeons below the Palace of Justice were always cold and damp, an unwelcome sensation to all. It smelled like death: sweat, blood, urine, and waste which could turn a person sick on their first visit down.

A whip cracked and a man let out an agonizing scream of pain, the Minister of Justice just grinned remorselessly.

Claude watched the torture session with indifference. Occasionally Nicolas would drag him down there to watch as punishments were carried out or when they extracted confessions. Sometimes Claude would find himself sharing his father's cruel expression as he watched the prisoners beg for sweet mercy. A few times he would just drop in on these sessions when he needed time to think.

The boy grew bored after a while and announced that he was leaving, only for his father to barely notice.

Upon exiting the Palace, he was met with the crisp autumn air and a dark overcast hanging above Paris. He welcomed the gloomy weather since he hated bright, sunny days. The cold, dreary weather was comforting to the boy.

Claude was still bothered by a hollow feeling inside of him. For two days now, he was still conflicted by the many things going on his head from the incident. But if there was one thing he learned from his father, it's that there's always someone else to blame.

_René shouldn't have got in my way,_ he mused over this guiltlessly. _He should have just let me deal with Marcel, and all of this could have been avoided. It's his own fault…_

There was something else that had puzzled him for months now: where was this "Court of Miracles"anyway? The safe haven for the gypsies of Paris where Celeste's brother was taken to get help. When she first told him, it piqued his interest only to be forgotten soon after. The more he heard about it, though, the more he desired to find it. But Claude knew that outsiders were not allowed there, especially in light of what happened, so he would probably never see it.

Claude found himself sitting on the steps of Notre Dame. He rested his chin on his palm and stared blankly as he watched people go about their day, as he was lost in his own thoughts. In times like these, Claude would usually find himself visiting the most random of memories.

_He remembered one day last year, when he went to school and learned that Martin Dupreaux had died of plague the previous day…_

Another mother dragging her screaming children off to run errands.

_He recalled a visit to Burgundy one summer, watching for hours as the monks would tend to the vineyards…_

A customer trying to bargain with a fruit vendor.

_He accompanied his father on a journey to Constantinople, endlessly amazed at the Hagia Sophia whose beauty could easily match that of Notre Dame herself…_

He was shaken from these flashbacks by a tap on the shoulder.

"Sorry, am I interrupting something?" she said.

Claude was overcome by something that prevented him from looking at her. Noticing his discomfort, Celeste sat down next to him, not making eye contact either.

"So, good news," she began. "René's going to be alright."

All he could reply was "Good."

"The bad news though…he hates you now. And my parents don't trust you anymore."

Claude rolled his eyes. "Well, that's comforting to hear," he said sarcastically.

"But," she said hopefully. "René also told me what really happened."

Arching an eyebrow at her, Claude was suspicious of what René's version of "what really happened" could be. "And what did he say?" he asked cautiously.

"He said that Marcel was giving you a hard time and that you just lost it."

He so wanted to confess Marcel's attempted murder of him over the girl, and how he challenged him the other day. But then he decided that might not be the smartest move._ This is not the time to be making more enemies,_ he thought.

"Claude, you need to work on your temper," Celeste nagged him. "One day, it's going to get the best of you and you're going to get hurt."

"Trust me, Celeste," he said. "I'm patient until I'm pushed too far."

***A/N: Frollo's just making friends all the time, huh? I had a really hard time trying to get through this chapter for some reason, maybe because I was working on the finale for later on (not ending this story any time soon though!) So I understand it's not my best work.**

**So yeah, we get to see Frollo adopting his quality of denying any sort of self-blame even when it is his fault. Except in this case, I see it can be split between him and Marcel, that might be bias though. Also that crazy bipolar behavior.**

**Next chapter might get a little weird though, but it might be fun to write; already have the concept in my head.**


	15. Birthday Surprise

The skies were gray and the bitter cold air pushed freshly-fallen and dead, dried-up leaves. For some reason November always felt like the longest month to Claude Frollo. Even though his fourteenth birthday was coming up, he never thought much of it. He just sat at his windowsill with his face buried in a book on alchemy, a subject he found himself enamored by recently.

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs and hoped that if it was his father, he would just walk on past his door. His heart leaped when the door pushed open and Nicolas entered unannounced, startling his son.

"Boy," he addressed. "You will be fourteen tomorrow, correct?"

"Yes sir," Claude replied obediently.

"Good. Then tomorrow you will receive a gift worthy of a man." Before exiting and closing the door behind him.

Claude arched an eyebrow in confusion at this brief meeting. Since when did his father care about his birthday? Nicolas had never really taken an interest in his son's life, let alone something as menial as his birthday.

_A "gift worthy of a man." What on earth could that mean?_

Something in him instinctively started to worry, especially with the notion that it could be something that he would immediately regret receiving.

He stared out the window at the bare-branched trees surrounding his house, ignoring the alchemy book completely, his mind deep in wonderment.

* * *

"Happy birthday Claude!" Celeste greeted, throwing her arms around him when he met her at the bridge.

"Thank you, Celeste," he said, giving a small delighted smile.

"You know what that means?"

He thought for a moment and remembered last year. "Oh no," backing a few inches away from her.

"Oh yes," she said, grabbing his arm and twisting him around to deliver fourteen punches to his other arm.

When she finished, Claude rubbed at his sore arm. "Well, thank you for the gift," he said sarcastically yet playfully. "But then again, it isn't the worst birthday present I've ever received."

"Then what was the worst?" she asked, climbing up to sit on the ledge while he leaned against it, staring down at the water running below.

Claude paused for a moment and tried to recollect past years' worth of "gifts."

"My eighth birthday," he began. "My father was drunk and stark raving mad. He was so angered by something I said that he went to the kitchen, picked up a wooden spoon, and broke it over my shoulder. When I started to cry, he smacked me across the face and broke my nose." Claude explained the whole thing so casually, as though he was discussing something as meaningless as the weather.

Celeste looked at him with a little astonishment; she knew that his father was violent but didn't think he would be so willing to do something so brash.

Climbing down from the ledge, Celeste craned her neck to examine the crook of his nose. "You know, Claude, it makes you look…scholarly." Trying to lighten the situation.

"Is that why you hate your birthday?" she asked.

Claude shrugged. "They just seem so pointless to me."

"But Claude, a lot of things are pointless to you."

He chuckled at her observation of his cynicism. "Maybe, but my father told me yesterday that I would be receiving something, which worries me."

"You worry too much," she commented.

"With good reason."

"What do you think it is?" she asked.

He sighed. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I won't like it."

"And if you do?" she challenged.

Claude looked at her with a doubtful expression. "Then it shall be one birthday without pain."

* * *

Dusk was falling over Paris and Claude ventured home, fretting over what his father might have in store for him. He had never really been used to receiving gifts; despite the fact that he came from an affluent family, Claude really only knew receiving things he needed, not wanted. One of the few things he considered gifts were his books and his horse, Damocles, that was given when he began riding.

Upon entering the house, he went straight to the parlor room to find his father sitting and reading a book before looking up at Claude.

"Hello son," he greeted in a strangely calm voice.

"Where's mother?" Claude asked, forgetting to return the greeting.

"She decided to join the Reneaux family for the evening," putting down his book and rising to his feet. "Now come along."

Claude automatically followed Nicolas, who led him outside to the stables. Mounting the beast Bacchus, Claude followed suit and climbed atop Damocles. Nicolas again told him to follow him.

As they rode their way back to the city, Claude couldn't help but feel the all too familiar pain of anticipation of something bad about to happen, especially if it was a gift from a man like Nicolas Frollo, who enjoyed his share of debauchery. He grew more anxious when he found himself riding into the dreaded red-light district, a place to which Claude vowed never to return.

Nicolas led his son to a familiar building where Claude remembered spending many a night waiting outside for his father: Madame Florika's, one of Paris's most famous brothels.

Nicolas dismounted his horse and motioned for his son to do the same. He handed the reins over to a man with whom he seemed to be familiar, Claude handing over Damocles's reins as well. As the man walked away with the horses, Nicolas said to Claude, "Well, come on," making their way to the entrance.

Claude immediately felt overwhelmed upon entering the facility. Men and scantily-clad women walking up and down the stairs, in and out of rooms, some of the women sitting around and talking. The place had a strange aroma that was a combination of both lavender and sweat.

He looked over to see his father whispering to who he assumed was the infamous Madame Florika; a pale woman who looked like she was in her early forties, long black hair neatly arranged in an elegant style, and wearing a dress that emphasized her figure but did not expose as much skin as her employees.

"Don't worry, Minister," Claude heard her say. "That can be arranged." Nicolas smiled and nodded at this.

"Claude," he said. "We're going to follow Madame Florika."

Sensing the Frollo boy's uncertainty to comply, she took him by the wrist and led him upstairs, Nicolas trailing behind, all the while ogling at the various women.

Florika led them down the hallway before making a sharp left turn to a shorter hall. She stopped at one door and pulled out a set of keys from her belt to take the one that unlocked it. Upon opening the door, she motioned for the boy to enter, but Claude was frozen in place.

The boy's eyes were wide as he glanced at the inside of the room: absolutely windowless, a few candles emitting light, and a large bed. He could only stare, unable to move his feet until Nicolas remedied his predicament by grabbing Claude's shoulder and roughly pushing him inside, Florika quickly and wordlessly closing the door.

Claude heard the turn of a lock and rushed back to the door, pushing and pulling the handle trying to get it to open. On the other side, he could hear the Madame say to Nicolas that she would go see if somebody "was ready."

Claude was growing more anxious. He called, "Father! Please let me out!"

He heard his father laugh. "Sorry Claude. I've already told the Madame not to let you out until you're a man! Besides, she's found someone special just for you!"

Claude backed away from the door, his heart racing. He hated the very thought that it _was_ going to happen.

All his life, the church and his mother had taught him that sex was meant to solely for procreation between a married man and woman. Jean-Marie warned him to stay away from girls of "easy virtue," ironically married to a man who was a prime example of the Deadly Sin of Lust. When he questioned her about his father's actions, she would simply reply, "Just worry about your own soul, Claude."

Was unwillingly giving into sin the only way to become a man?

Claude paced back and forth around the room pondering these nagging thoughts until he heard the door unlocking. He froze again, watching as a young girl, possibly fifteen or sixteen years old, walk in. She bore a saddened expression on her face, which was partially covered by strands of her dark brown hair. Her dress was similar to many of the other girls in the house: pushing her small breasts out and exposing her thin, bony shoulders.

She looked up from the door she was closing at the paralyzed Claude standing in the middle of the room. "_You're_ my client?" she asked.

He struggled for words, hoping like a child that if he remained quiet the girl would just leave and he could escape this trial of virtue.

"No wonder Madame said that she needed the youngest here." The girl made her way to the foot of the bed and sat down, staring at the nervous boy. "So what's your name?" she casually asked.

Surprised at her laid-back attitude, he shakily replied, "Umm…Claude."

"This your first time, Claude?" she asked, to which he nodded in reply. "I'm Ève, by the way."

_How fitting, _Claude thought. _A name for a woman meant to lead man down the path of sin._

"Do we…_have_ to?" he stupidly asked.

Ève shrugged her shoulders and said, "This room purposely locks from the outside for these kinds of occasions: when a guy wants his friend to get laid, so they pay the Madame extra for the room. And unfortunately, this is how I earn a living. Besides, if I don't then the Madame will punish me."

"Can't you just tell her we did and we can just be done?" he asked hopefully, a bead of sweat running down his forehead.

Ève sighed. "I tried that once, but somehow she could just tell that I didn't do it. So it doesn't look like we have a lot of options, Claude. It'll be a lot easier if we just get it over with."

Claude thought it over for a moment: Nicolas would destroy him if he didn't go through with it, and on top of that, an innocent person would also face the consequences even though she was only trying to do her job.

He took a deep breath. "Alright, then let's get this over with," he said remorsefully as he took a seat next to her.

"Don't worry. I'll try to make it quick." She said, gripping his hand trying to ease his sorrow.

* * *

Claude hastily put his clothes back on as soon as it was over. As Ève dressed herself, he couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"Are you going to be alright?" she asked as she reached out her hand for his shoulder.

He pulled away quickly and anxiously said, "Don't touch me!"

She understood that a lot of conflicted emotions were probably building up in his head, so she decided to just let him be.

When she saw that he had finished dressing, Ève walked over and knocked on the door, opened a few seconds later by Madame Florika.

"Are you finished?" she asked monotonously.

The girl nodded her head. Claude trailed behind her with his gaze fixed on the floor, and shame written across his face.

Florika studied their expressions and said, "Very well. Ève, the night is still young so get back to work. Young Master Frollo, you will wait downstairs since your father is…_preoccupied._" He nodded his head without the least bit expression.

Downstairs, he leaned against a wall waiting for Nicolas, all the while he thought over and over about the sin he had just committed. Now he was doomed to the fires of Hell and it was all his father's fault. Claude wished that he could just forget the whole thing or turn back time and make sure that it never happened. Anger was building up inside of him, causing his cheeks to turn red and his hands to ball into fists, shaking tremendously. He wished that he would have just received another birthday beating.

* * *

Claude closed the door behind him and sat down. The brass slot sliding open and the Archdeacon's voice greeting, "Good morning, my child."

Claude clasped his hands together, his nails digging into his hands. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

***A/N: This took me a while, I know, I just had writer's block. This chapter actually made me emotional to write. Well here we can see Frollo battling religious morals vs. sex (albeit, unwilling).**

**If there's anything you want to see in upcoming chapters, please let me know! Anything to keep writer's block from sticking.**

**P.S. The name Damocles comes from the story of the Sword of Damocles, which is a metaphor for a constant threat.**


	16. A Revelation

From the pew Claude looked up at the apse of the empty church, feeling almost unworthy of being in the presence of such fine architecture. Then he looked back down at the Bible he held in his lap and read again the same verse:

_Corinthians 6:18: Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body._

The words burned him to his core, especially with each stained glass apostle, prophet, and the Holy Mother the looking down on him condemningly.

"So this is where you've been the past two days," Celeste greeted in a soft voice which still managed to startle her deep in thought friend. When she approached him, she lightly placed her hand on Claude's shoulder before asking, "So how was your father's birthday present?"

Claude quietly shut the book and slowly turned around to face Celeste. She was a little shaken when she laid her eyes on him: his once neat black locks were falling into disarray; dark circles underlined his bloodshot eyes, probably from lack of sleep and weeping; and the sullen expression on his face gave away the anguish he had been suffering.

"I've doomed myself, Celeste," he stated woefully.

Sitting down beside him and placing her arm around him, which caused him to flinch a little, she inquired further, "What happened, Claude?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, evidencing his guilt. Sighing before stating, "Fornication."

"Fornication?" she asked confused.

"My father took me to a whorehouse and…forced me to lose my virginity to a young lady." He clamped his eyes shut, the pause filled with shame to admit what happened.

Celeste awkwardly glanced around, unsure of how to respond to such information. She knew that her friend valued his Catholic morals, which she didn't understand; in her culture, sleeping around was not treated as such a crime. So maybe it was better just to let him discuss the subject further.

Nervously, she pushed forward. "And…what happened after that?"

Claude again looked at the stained glass figures remorsefully. "My father made me swear not to tell my mother what happened. When she asked where we went, he told her that he just took me out for a celebratory drink. But then," he shot his gaze towards the ground, showing that the story was about to take a turn for the worst. "The next day, it seems that some of her fellow noble-ladies' servants were gossiping about seeing us in the red-light district. Needless to say, when I returned home, she was less than pleased to hear that she had a sinner for a son."

"What did she do?"

"It wasn't as though she could do much about my father, but she was furious that I had "given into temptation," even though I attempted to explain that I did not go through with it _willingly_. But she would not hear it…so she told my father that I had to be punished."

An even graver look washed over him, Celeste staring at him slightly agape, fearing that he would discuss such _punishment_ that was not supposed to afflict him at his age anymore.

Claude continued, "My father jumped at this opportunity, eager for another chance to inflict pain on me once again."

_Nicolas grabbed his son by both arms, facing him to his enraged mother whose tears had left her eyes bright red._

"_Nicolas, I despise the fact that you took him there in the first place, but Claude…" she said accusingly to him. "I thought you were smarter than this: to allow the Devil to cloud your judgment like that? Does the word of God mean nothing to you?!"_

_Claude struggled to break free from his father's grip. "Mother, please! I didn't want to at all, but-"_

"_But you _did_, Claude!" Jean-Marie retorted. "You have condemned yourself and put your immortal soul in grave danger! And I cannot allow my son to live with such a deed gone unpunished!" _

_Claude's gray eyes stared at her pleadingly, nervous of what she had in mind._

"_Nicolas," she commanded, her husband surprisingly obedient in dragging their son to wherever she was heading._

_Claude was more surprised than anything that his mother would be the one who wanted to discipline him, since throughout his life she usually just left that task to his father._

_Jean-Marie led them outside to the back of the manor and walked towards an old post that protruded from the ground. As far as Claude was concerned, it had been there forever with no real purpose…until now. _

_She nodded to her husband towards it, dragging Claude along. Keeping his iron grip, he forced the boy's arms around towards to wooden post, and out of nowhere, Jean-Marie had kept hidden some rope which she used to bind her son's hands to it. Now Claude was more terrified and confused than ever, especially to where a noble woman learned such a skill (the binding surprisingly tight.)_

_While Claude tugged at the rope binding, he barely registered an all too familiar feeling of his father's grip on the back of his shirt, instantly feeling the fabric being ripped off of him. _

_Now he knew what was to come..._

The old birch stick,_ he thought grimly, his jaw dropping when he turned around._

"_Nicolas, you do the honors," Jean-Marie said, handing him a scourge that had about ten leather whips. "I know that you are much more skilled at this than I."_

"_With pleasure," his bearded face turning in a sick, twisted smile as he approached his son._

_Claude's eyes instantly shut and his fists clenched tightly as he felt the first whips crack across his back. The pain stung and ran much deeper than the birch stick he remembered being hit with as a child. _

_Another excruciating sting, and another, and another... Claude gritted his teeth and groaned from the pain of new wounds meeting old ones. His fists stayed clenched, the knuckles so white that they looked as though they would burst from his skin._

_The elder Frollo whipped the scourge across Claude's back again, Jean-Marie watching intently before she began to speak. "Satan has led you to sin, Claude! You must atone for such unholy acts! For you have committed a crime not only against yourself, but against the Lord!"_

It's not my fault,_ he argued mentally, fighting back any further signs of physical weakness._

"They whipped me about twenty times before my mother decided that I had suffered enough," Claude explained. Exhaling, he continued, "Then, after about an hour, she came to my room and informed me that the only way I can perform "true penance" for what I did, is to become a servant of God."

"What? Are they making you serve as an altar boy?" Celeste asked half-jokingly, half-nervous.

"No. They want me to become a member of the clergy, especially since I've already studied Latin and the trivium. My mother says it is the only certain way to atone for my sin. So they will send me the convent School of Torchi at the University."

"You really want to become a priest?" she asked almost doubtfully.

Claude again looked up at all of the figures staring down on him accusingly, pressure building inside his mind. "Yes, I think I do. I'll dedicate my life to serving God to achieve true redemption." His voice trailed off, "So maybe this is all part of His plan…"

Celeste raised an eyebrow at him. "You mean this was all _meant_ to happen?"

He nodded. "Maybe He meant for me to sin so my parents would send me to study to join the clergy. As in, I am_ meant _to become a priest."

Claude's revelation caused a wide grin to stretch across his face as he looked once more at the windows' saints, now feeling blessed that he had received his mission from God. In his mind, imagining being ordained as a priest, performing various ceremonies, giving sermons, and maybe even one day becoming an archdeacon, or even a bishop…

"Claude?" Celeste's voice breaking him from his fantasies.

"I'm sorry, Celeste. What were you saying?" he replied.

"I was just asking if this means you're going to be alright? Or are you still upset?" she asked.

Claude smiled a bit and happily said, "How can I be upset now when God has shown me the path to my destiny?"

"Alright then, what title would you prefer: Father Claude or Father Frollo?" she joked.

"Funny," he said sarcastically. "Although remember this, Celeste: I will have to spend much more time studying when I enroll there."

Her expression fell. "So…I won't see you as often?"

"I suppose not; if I am to become a clergyman, then I will have to dedicate most, if not all, of my time to learning." He explained, trying to remain stoic despite that the fact bothered him just as much.

"Oh. I see," she stared at the ground as she tried to hide her disappointment. Her face covered mostly by her long black hair.

Claude lowered his head and cocked it to the side to meet her gaze. "Celeste, you will always be my friend. Just because I have a mission to carry out, no matter how time-consuming, we will _always_ be friends."

She glanced at his sideways stare. "Do you mean that, Claude?"

"Of course. Besides, we've been through much worse, have we not?" Giving her a reassuring smile.

Raising her head, she replied, "That's true," and gave him a small smile. "But can I ask a question regarding this monk school thing?"

"What?"

"Do you have to shave your head when you go there?"

He thought about it for a moment and sighed. "Unfortunately, yes I do."

Celeste tried stifling her laughter at him and the idea of it, causing Claude to roll his eyes.

"Laugh now, but it is all for the cause," he said, trying to look casual as he ran his fingers through his messy hair, thinking about the notion of sporting a tonsure. _A small price to pay,_ he thought.

"Mark my words, Celeste," he said. "I _will _be a member of the clergy. If I don't…I'm not sure what I'd do."

"Don't worry, Claude. You're smart, you'll think of something. But until then, I have full confidence in you."

Celeste's words gave him the reassurance he needed to fully embrace his newfound destiny…

_I will carry out God's will,_ Claude thought. _By whatever means necessary._

***A/n: Yeah, I know this chapter sucks, but I felt like I needed to show Claude with some kind of spiritual growth, in this case, believing that what he went through was part of God's plan like the good Catholic boy he is. So he wants to be a priest, eh? Wonder how that will pan out.**

**And so I guess his mom only decides to discipline him when he's gone against their faith...how's that for character development?**

**So yeah, this chapter is another bridge I guess. Maybe I should skip another two years or so, when fate conspires against our hero Claude.**


	17. A Change in Plans

True to his word, Claude was able to work his way into the monastic School of Torchi, ready to further his education. He moved out of his family's house and into one of the small cells in Notre Dame where the fellow monks presided. He relished in extensive reading of the Bible, constant prayer, as well as mastering the trivium of Latin grammar, rhetoric, and logic. After this, he was eager to take on the qudrivium of arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music.

However, no matter how dedicated he was to the church, Claude still found enough nerve, albeit hesitantly, to slip out every few nights or so to rendezvous with Celeste. As he found out though, it would be easier for her to meet him when the monks took him on a charity outing, the two playfully acting like strangers, which proved to be fun. With the exception of one particular meeting in which a pestering Marcel tagged along, only to burst into laughter at Claude's tonsure, which he quickly brushed off.

Some of the priests could not help but feel that there was something about the Frollo boy that was a little unsettling. Such as the way he subtly glared at some of the characters who asked for spare change or some food. Or how he was quick to start an argument when somebody disagreed with him on something. Even the Archdeacon could sense that there was something dark in the boy's heart. Nevertheless, there was no doubt that he had proven himself to be fully committed to his work.

* * *

**Two years later…**

At first a knock then the door was pushed open, Father Augustin standing in the doorway. "Claude?" he asked softly.

The young man looked up from the small cot on which he sat, where he had been reading as always. "Yes, Father?"

The older man sighed. "Claude, I think there is something we should discuss."

"What about?" Claude asked with a curious expression. Augustin walked in, shutting the door behind him. Claude stood up to face the man, who nervously clasped his hands together while looking very contemplative.

"Claude, you know that many of us admire your intellect and abilities."

The teenager nodded his head, unsure of where this conversation was heading.

"And you know that with your background, you have many more options to pursue other than the church."

"But Father Augustin, I _want_ to be a member of the church," he calmly protested.

"I understand that. However, some of my associates and I have been discussing something about you."

The young Frollo's heartbeat increased at this ominous statement.

Augustin sighed. "Many of us feel that perhaps the clergy is not for you, Claude."

He felt the wind momentarily knocked out of him upon hearing these words.

"Father," he said slowly, trying to keep his temper in check. "What do you mean 'not for me'?"

Augustin's expression was grave. "Some of just feel that your skills would be better suited in another field other than priesthood."

Claude's blood boiled and his temples pulsed with anger. He argued, "Father, please understand that I have dedicated myself to serving God." His voice was raising gradually, revealing the emotion building up inside. "I cannot just throw that away!"

"Claude, please calm down," Augustin said, trying to remain composed.

The boy gritted his teeth, his hands clenched to his sides. "How can I remain calm while you stand before me and tell me that I am not fit to serve our Lord?!" He glared at the Archdeacon with fierce animosity, seething with rage. Claude wanted nothing more than to just grab the man by his throat and force him to take back his words.

"_This_ is precisely why we feel that priesthood is _not _for you," Augustin replied calmly.

Claude's breathing shallowed and again he asked the Archdeacon to elaborate.

"You don't have the patience," he explained solemnly. "Young man, you need to learn how to contain your anger without going ballistic. Does the phrase "patience is a virtue" mean nothing to you?"

Claude slowly sank back onto his cot, contemplating Augustin's words. "For two years I have thought that one day I would wear those robes, ready to serve the Lord in Notre Dame herself…Now what am I supposed to do?"

"I have discussed the matter with your parents and they agree that you should be removed from the school of Torchi and will simply attend other schools to study," Augustin stated, his voiced hinted a bit of sympathy, especially when seeing Frollo's disappointed expression.

"So that's it then?" the boy asked chagrined. "All of that work the past two years, was all for naught?"

"Do not think of it like that, Claude. Many have wished to serve our Lord, and you have reached a level farther than many can claim." He studied the teen, who hung his head and stared blankly at the floor. "I suggest that you return to your parents' home, as I believe they should be expecting you."

As he approached the door, the Archdeacon sadly looked at Claude. In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he jokingly said, "On the bright side, at least you grow your hair back!"

But Claude made it obvious that he was in no mood to be toyed with any further, as evidenced by his strong silence and not even stirring at the comment. Unnerved at this lack of response, Augustin left promptly.

When the door closed, Claude buried his face in his hands, trying to soak up everything that had just happened.

_"Don't have the patience?"_ he thought irritably. _With everything I have endured, it is a wonder that I have not yet gone mad!_

Clasping his hands together in front of his face, Claude stared at the wall, tormented by these thoughts.

What was he to do now? He had been rejected of serving God, and it caused him the greatest internal pain that he had experienced in a long time. Claude felt as though everything was being taken away from him.

Getting up from his cot, he picked up the worn out Bible, which was the only thing he brought with him when he entered the monastery. At the door, his eyes took one last look around the cell, before he reluctantly turned to leave the cathedral.

Pulling his hood over and turning his back to Notre Dame, Claude thought, _Like Cain: cast out and forced to wander in search of purpose elsewhere._ He numbly made his way through the streets and back down the familiar route to the Frollo manor.

On his journey home, Claude thought over and over about the past two years and everything he had gone through. So badly he had wanted and studied to become a priest, indulging in the subject of theology and quickly becoming capable of holding his own in a discussion with various clergymen, the Father of Councils, and a doctor from Sorbonne.

He remembered the many times he was forced to show kindness towards ungrateful people, like when they complained about the clothes the church handed out being too itchy. He was forced to endure without saying a word, instead casting them hateful glares.

He broke from these thoughts when he looked up to see his old home; since he had been living in Notre Dame's quarters for two years, there was some sort of discomfort looming over him upon reaching the house. Nevertheless, he took the key ring that he always kept hidden away on his belt from under his robe and unlocked the door, stepping inside the familiar grandeur of the family's home.

One of the servants approached him and looked at him strangely since he still had his hood over. After removing it, the servant took a moment to register that it was Claude. She had been informed that he would be returning that day, but he was still unrecognizable with his tonsure.

She nodded and spoke, "Welcome home, Master Claude. Your quarters have been prepared for you. Do you require anything else?"

Solemnly, he shook his head and made his way upstairs, stopping at his door. It felt like an eternity since he had been back in his house; upon entering his room, it almost felt surreal to be back.

Getting over these nostalgic feelings, Claude trudged forward and found that they had already left him a new set of clothes on his bed. After changing, he slumped down at the old desk adjacent to the door. Letting out an exasperating sigh, he rested his head on his arms and stared ruefully at the books that hadn't moved from the desk at all during his time away.

Claude thought about all the subjects that he had studied extensively: canon law, theology, medicine, science, liberal arts, and along with Latin, he had even mastered the Greek and Hebrew languages. It seemed like there was so much offered to him…but what path to choose? None of these fields seemed to be as fulfilling as doing God's work, only man's.

His eyes flickered over the books before settling them on one: alchemy. Claude had had to set aside such ridiculous ideas upon joining the monastery out of fear that he might be expelled under the suspicion of sorcery, especially should he ever succeed in turning metal into gold.

So many different areas Claude had the option to dedicate his life to; maybe a doctor, magistrate, scientist, lawyer…alchemist. After all, what did he have to lose now?

* * *

Celeste walked through the streets of Paris, wondering what to do. During the past two years, she had seldom seen Claude and she hadn't heard from or seen him in weeks. She knew how dedicated he was to his studies, but still he had shown that he valued their friendship.

Although weeks ago she had overheard a group of students discussing "the Frollo boy not being good enough for the clergy." Celeste wondered that if Claude had gotten kicked out, why hadn't she seen him yet? Half of her knew that her friend prided himself in unpredictability, so who knows what he could be up to? The other half worried that his scholarly ego might have gotten the best of him and decided that he was above her company, which would be quite disappointing since her family had come around to him again after he became a monk. Still, what was he up to?

"That Frollo kid is something else."

Celeste whipped around at a couple of boys walking past her; Skinny and pretentious-looking, typical scholars.

"I know," the other boy said. "Apparently he was the first one that the Abbot of Saint-Pierre de Val noticed at the canon law lecture. I hear that he's always the first one there and last to leave."

Celeste shuffled towards the pair, eager to learn about her friend. "Excuse me, boys," causing them to turn around, surprised to see a gypsy addressing them. "I was wondering if you knew where I could find Claude Frollo?"

"That depends," the taller of the pair said cautiously. "What does a simple gypsy want with the Minister of Justice's son?"

She furrowed her brow at him. Keeping her composure, she replied, "Look, my business with him is my own. I just need to know where he is because I need to talk to him."

The two boys exchanged glances before the shorter one gave an uncaring shrug. "Fine," the taller one said. "You can usually find Frollo studying in the Rue Saint-Jean de Beauvais. But mind you, he barely gives anybody the time of day unless they have some sort of knowledge to pass onto him."

"He's real popular with everyone," the other commented sarcastically.

"Thanks," Celeste said, walking away and trying to avoid popping one of them in the mouth. Now time to find Claude.

* * *

Sure enough, when Celeste arrived at the Rue Saint-Jean de Beauvais, she had to do some searching around before finding Claude with his hooked nose to a book, sitting on a bench and oblivious to the world. He ran his fingers through his short black hair, which was growing back from the tonsure haircut that she had so tortuously laughed over upon first seeing him. Walking up to him slowly, his eyes never left the page of his book. She bent down a little to try and meet his gaze, still too engrossed in his reading.

"Claude?" she said sharply, causing him to jump a little at this interruption.

His head shot up and eyes widened in surprise. "Celeste?" he said, putting his book down and standing up. Unpredictable as ever, she was stunned when he locked her in a tight embrace. He pulled away and gripped at Celeste's shoulders while his thin lips curled into a sincere smile. "I've missed you Celeste!" he said.

"I've missed you too, Claude. Where have you been all this time? I heard you're not in the monastery anymore. Is that true?"

He grimaced. "Sadly, yes. About six weeks ago they told me that I was not fit to become a priest."

She was baffled at the news; Celeste had dealt with many people in her life, but none as devout as Claude. "_You_? Not fit to be a priest? How did _that_ happen?" she inquired.

He sat back down on the bench, Celeste sitting down next to him. "They told me that I "lack patience." The very idea!"

Suddenly it made more sense. "No offense, Claude, but you're not exactly the definition of patience." He shot her a look of bewilderment that she wasn't on his side.

"Anyway," she continued. "What are you going to do now that you can't be a priest?"

Claude stared blankly into space. "Well, alchemy was a failed experiment, so I can forget about that."

"Alchemy? That metal to gold junk? You actually tried it out?"

Claude shrugged. "For the past few weeks, I have been trying everything to conquer it, only to have it blow up in my face…literally. It is a fool's errand to try and conjure up riches out of nothing like a sorcerer. As I have discovered, it is barely even a real science. Nothing but folklore and tall tales." He didn't want to admit that he had even been a frequent visitor to Nicolas Flamel's tomb, studying the various characters carved upon it. Claude had been so determined on his alchemical quest for the philosopher's stone that he had spent some days digging through the cellars of Flamel's old house, only for his search to be all in vain.

"So you don't know what you want to do?" asked Celeste.

"Unfortunately not," he admitted. "These last two years, all I could imagine doing was being part of the church, doing God's work. I can't imagine doing that as a doctor."

Celeste thought about his situation. "Maybe you're going about this the wrong way."

"Then in what way _should_ I be seeing this predicament?" he asked a little annoyed.

"Well," she began. "You want to do "God's work," right? Who said it has to be only through the church?"

It made sense though; Claude remembered the stories of the Crusades, where Christian warriors would carry out God's will through force and stamping out their opponents. Perhaps this was just like the realization two years before: his goals compromised to show the path to a new one.

"You're right," he said softly, pulling away from his thoughts. "If I cannot spread God's word, then perhaps I can _enforce_ it."

Slightly confused, she inquired further. "And by that, you mean…?"

"Justice," he stated bluntly. "Think about it, Celeste. If I was a judge, I could punish those who have committed crimes against society _and_ God. It makes perfect sense; it is all a part of His plan!"

"To be a judge? I have to say, it sounds fitting: _Judge Claude Frollo_."

"Precisely," he said craftily.

Claude delighted in the thought of sentencing criminals to be tortured, or better: death. He remembered how he enjoyed watching the guilty squirm in excruciating pain in the torture chamber where he had accompanied his father numerous times. The very thought of wielding that much power exhilarated him.

_Judge Claude Frollo…the Guardian of Paris._

***A/n: This chapter was like _eh _to me. I know there should be more about alchemy, but it is a very hard concept for me to grasp.**

**Just saying, I'm going to have less time to continue the story since I'm back in school. Plus, I might be working as a technician at my school's spring musical (techie life!), which is very time consuming. I'm not sure how much more can get put into this story, but rest assured, the end is still not anytime soon...even though things might start making more turns to get closer to the finale. Like I said: open to suggestions and thank you guys!**


	18. Letting Loose

Claude's time out of the monastery had been filled with almost nothing but studying and the occasional sword-training. He had not told Celeste that his initial welcome home from his parents was reprehension for not "completely embracing Christian values" to become a priest, the whole time Claude remaining stoic and barely responsive.

He was doing his best to spend as little time away from his home as possible, throwing himself into his education at the university. Claude's passion for learning never deteriorated; he was known for always sitting in the seat closest to the speaker in lecture halls, and was always at the doors of the Chef-Saint-Denis school the moment they opened. Claude gained reputation by some of the lecturers as one of the most attentive and brightest students.

After deciding to go into law, he had explained to his parents his agenda, of which they beamed in pride and approval. Nicolas joyously clapped his son on the back (Claude recoiling a bit) congratulating him on his decision. "It's all about putting others in their place, right my son?" the Minister said boisterously.

Claude had already studied some canon law, but never so extensively, and quickly took a liking to it. Nicolas had even allowed him to occasionally sit in on hearings at the Palace of Justice's courtrooms.

Best of all, since he wasn't forced to sneak around anymore, it was easier for him to see Celeste during his free-time when he was studying. There was a small ounce of pride and accomplishment when he would recount the day's teachings, remembering when they were young and he was teaching her how to read.

Though Claude was a widely respected scholar among his peers and superiors, there were many who found the Frollo boy to be a bit peculiar. He never wanted to tag along and join in the excesses of drink and flesh. However, that did not discourage them from at least trying…

"Frollo!" a young man with long brown hair called.

Claude was on his way home and stopped to face the man. "What is it, Dorian?"

"Many of us will be gathering at the Pomme d'Eve and we wish to see you there as well!" the young man explained, placing his hand on Claude's shoulder.

He looked at Dorian with a small bit of disdain. "Thank you for the invitation," he said, removing Dorian's hand. "But I must turn down such an offer."

"Come on, Frollo! Why not?"

"I do not wish to indulge in such mindless, frivolous activity, thank you. Proverbs 23:21: _For the drunkard and the glutton will come to poverty, and slumber will clothe them with rags._"

Dorian rolled his eyes. "Oh, spare me the sermon, Claude. Where's your sense of enjoying life? And having a bit of fun?"

Claude remained unmoved by Dorian's prodding.

"How about just a drink?" Dorian asked. "I'll buy."

_Give me strength,_ Claude pleaded.

"If it will get you off my back, then fine, Dorian. Lead the way."

The young man grinned. "Alright! Let's go!"

The sun was setting, day turning to evening, which meant the most unsavory characters would be emerging from their nests quite soon. Claude observed how local strumpets were already making their rounds. The very thought disgusted him; how he detested these streetwalkers and brothel dwellers whose sinful ways had stolen his prized virtue.

_Never again,_ he told himself.

"Here we are!" Dorian pointed to the tavern's door, above it was some sheet iron with a woman and an apple painted on.

Inside, Claude couldn't help but be a little intrigued by his surroundings: its arched ceiling, which rested on a central yellow pillar, and endless tables filled with familiar faces from the university, many of the students accompanied by young ladies.

_It's just one drink,_ he thought.

"Come," Dorian said leading Claude towards a table where about five other students and their female friends sat.

"Everyone," Dorian addressed the group. "Look who has decided to join us for a drink tonight! The amiable Claude Frollo: the university's star pupil!"

"Please, sit down, Claude!" a young blonde man said.

Claude took up a chair, Dorian right next to him, becoming wary of the atmosphere.

"So," the student continued. "What made such a hardened and studious person like you decide to spend the evening slumming it with those of less than impressive repute? Especially for something like a little…non-Communional drink?"

Keeping his composure, Claude plainly responded, "Dorian here would not let up until I agreed to having a drink."

"Well, he did you a favor then! A man like you needs to learn to loosen up every now and again."

"Unfortunately that would lead to the path of debauchery and sloth; a path that I would rather avoid."

The group exchanged confused looks, as though he was speaking gibberish.

"Very well," the student said, reaching for the wine bottle and an empty cup in the center of the table. "But that shouldn't mean that you're not allowed the Lord's drink from time to time, right?" Pouring a cup and handing it to Claude.

Reluctantly, he replied, "I suppose not." Taking the cup and swigging the drink down.

Before he knew it, his peers were discussing everything with him from his studies to his family, inserting a few vulgarities here and there. The whole ordeal was growing a bit fuzzy as time elapsed.

Claude looked down at his cup, his vision blurring a little and unable to focus.

_How much drink have I consumed? _Claude asked himself.

His uneven gaze flickered to the center of the table. When he first arrived tonight, there had only been a single bottle of wine, and now there was four, Dorian opening up a fifth.

_Should not be…so gluttonous,_ he scolded himself._ Deadly sin…_

"I must be going," Claude slurred, trying to balance himself after unsteadily standing up.

"Come now, Frollo!" one of them said. "If you're going to leave, at least have some company!" The man gave a gentle push to a young woman with long blonde hair, who smiled suggestively at him.

"You wouldn't want this night to go unfinished…would you, Claude?" she asked seductively, garnering an eruption of laughter and approval from the drunken group of students.

Claude's stared intensively, his mouth going dry. The alcohol filling his brain was sending signals throughout his body telling him to go through with it…to give into temptation.

_Drink: the gift that keeps on giving,_ he thought carelessly.

Something jolted him back to the memory of his fourteenth birthday: he remembered the shame and humiliation of committing such an act, how his mind and soul felt completely violated, and the punishment he endured afterwards for it.

"No!" he snarled. "I will not be involved with some cheap whore!"

The group went quiet, alarmed by his outburst. Claude himself, despite that he was barely aware of what was going on, was a bit surprised as well.

Pressing his palm to his forehead out of confusion, Claude stumbled his way through the tavern, pushing many a drunkard out of the way. With his brows furrowed and greeting all with a scowl, they could tell that this young man did not handle alcohol well.

Outside the tavern, night had already arrived. He had completely lost track of time and now was all alone.

_Just get home and get to bed, Claude._

Staggering, he tried to maneuver his way back, ever alert that trouble was just around the corner, especially for a young, drunk student. It relieved him a bit that he still carried his dagger, hidden at his side. As long as nobody bothered him, then he hoped he wouldn't have to use it.

"Well, what a coincidence seeing you here, Claude!"

_Oh God, please. Not right now._

"What brings you out so late, _Lord Frollo_?"

Marcel smirked at the student's clear annoyance. Though he was only about two years older, he had physically matured much faster, but retained his youthful and trouble-making ways. He appeared older with his broader shoulders, much more defined muscle, and ever growing goatee.

Irritated, Claude snapped, "Go away, Marcel!" He tried to put some distance between him and the gypsy. Despite being drunk, Claude knew it was not a good idea to be shown as vulnerable to one's enemy.

By the slur of his words and the lack of balance, Marcel could easily tell how the boy had spent his evening.

"Well," he began tauntingly. "Aren't we in…_high spirits_ tonight?"

"I told you to leave me alone, Marcel!" He was in no mood for jokes, let alone by somebody he couldn't stand. He wobbled forward, trying to continue his way home. Keeping at a distance, Marcel ignored Claude's words and continued to follow him.

"By the look of it, you've been hitting the town, haven't you, Frollo?" he inquired, stifling a laugh. "You smell like the Rue de Glatigny too!"

Annoyed, he replied, "The Pomme d'Eve, actually." He felt like he had been walking forever, wondering how much further he had before reaching his house.

"Marcel, you should leave me be so I can just get home. Please, just go!"

Marcel laughed. "Judging by how well you're doing, I'm fairly certain that you won't even _find_ your way home! You'd be better off just spending the night in an alley."

Claude scoffed at his comment. "I will not stoop so low to sleeping in the streets like some common beggar!" His stomach churned unpleasantly in an ocean of spirits.

He lumbered around the corner of a building, propping himself up against the wall.

"I thought you said you weren't going to sleep in an alley?" Marcel said.

"I just need to rest for a moment, you idiot!" Claude suddenly felt more exhausted than ever before, unknowingly slumping to the ground. He felt his eyelids becoming heavy and darkness enclosing him.

He could vaguely hear Marcel's voice saying, "I think I've helped you enough." All of a sudden, Claude felt as though something had been lifted off of him. Too tired to fight for it or even try and comprehend what was going on, he closed his eyes and began to feel his body drift away.

_Damn thief,_ he thought before lulling off into a heavy sleep.

* * *

Claude awoke to the sensation that he had dove headfirst into the river. The sound of rushing water made his temples pound furiously, causing him to groan loudly at this unpleasant (and soaking) wake-up.

_What the devil…_

"Good. You're back among the living."

Claude squinted his bloodshot eyes open a bit, only to quickly shield them with his hand from the sun. The bright light sent waves of blinding pain throughout his aching head. But he didn't need his vision to recognize who it was.

"Couldn't handle your drink, could you?" she remarked.

After his eyes took their time adjusting, Claude looked up to see Celeste standing over him with a bucket in her hands. He took a moment to realize that he was lying in old bags of grain and wheat in the middle of the alleyway from the previous night and was soaking wet. He winced a little at the soreness in his muscles from such uncomfortable sleeping arrangements.

Even though his head was throbbing terribly, he held his hand to his clammy forehead and tried to inquire how she had found him

"I got a tip that you were behind the bakery. Marcel told me that he tried to help you get home but you fell asleep in an alley, and I just had to make sure you weren't dead."

Claude barely remembered the last few conscious moments and frantically began to search himself, only to find that his money was gone.

_First he won't leave me alone, now he's robbed me…_, he thought.

If he hadn't been in so much pain, he would have damned Marcel a thousand times over. Instead, he carelessly fell back into the makeshift bed of burlap sacks.

Celeste rolled her eyes at him. "Claude, get up!" she said, Claude covering his ears to block everything out.

"Leave me be!" he tiredly said.

Gripping him by the arm, she helped him sit up; he was crippled useless by the hangover.

"Come on, you're not sleeping in the streets," she said, finally succeeding in getting him to stand up. "Let's get you home."

He suddenly pulled away and spun around. Celeste turned away as he coughed up and expelled all of the poison out of his body, leaving a disgusting sight on the cobblestone pavement. Wiping his mouth, he wobbled forth and followed Celeste.

The way back, she allowed him to use her as a crutch since he was still regaining his balance. Celeste felt bad at how much he was suffering from his night of drinking, but at the same time it was almost humorous that such a pious person had fallen victim to the power of alcohol.

Claude was caught between the ongoing tiredness and need for rest, and the self-disappointment that he had given into a night of madness.

_You're becoming just like him_, he worried. The only redemption in this was that he did not go to bed with some unknown woman. Sadly though, he felt shame that in a night he had acted like his father more than he ever wanted to.

With the Frollo manor in sight, Celeste gave him an encouraging push for him to stagger towards the house. He looked at the house as an oasis, where he could sleep off the aching aftermath of the night.

Entering clumsily, the servants looked up, surprised to see Claude inebriated and finally coming home. He ignored their confused looks and tiredly began to tread up the stairs.

"So," he heard his mother say as she entered from the parlor room. "Did you have fun drinking like a peasant all night?" she asked accusingly.

Groaning and too weak to explain anything, he waved her away and climbed the stairs.

"I hope you're satisfied with yourself, Claude," Jean-Marie continued to goad him. "You even missed this morning's mass!"

Wanting to end her awful nagging, he irritably cried out, "I will go to the evening one then!" Trudging up the last few stairs before finally making it to his bedroom.

Bolting the door shut, the lock landed with a heavy thud and sent another shooting pain through his head. Shutting the curtains tight, Claude then limply threw his body down on his bed, thankful it wasn't burlap sacks this time.

***a/n: Real friends don't leave you to die in the streets wasted! This was a fun chapter to write, and as we can see, Frollo doesn't handle being hammered very well. **

**I found in the book that the Rue de Glatigny is a street known for its gambling houses, so there's that.**

**By the way, I found out that our rehearsals don't start until about mid-February, so I still have time to write this! ("Bye Bye Birdie" is a'coming!)**

**Feedback is much appreciated!**


	19. Nightswimming

Life at the university was wearing Claude down, but he assured Celeste that it was nothing that he couldn't handle, even though his eyes evidenced that he was under pressure. Still, she worried that all of the work that he undertook would eventually cause him to reach his breaking point.

One afternoon, she watched as he raced through the pages of one of his history books, stopping only to rub at his tired eyes. Resting her braceleted hand on her friend's shoulder, Celeste said, "Claude, I think you need a break."

"Don't patronize me," he snapped, massaging his temple. "I am perfectly fine, thank you."

Celeste rolled her eyes at his stubbornness. "I get it: you're stressed and you need something to get your mind off of it. So…why don't we do just that?"

"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

"Look, just show up at the bridge tonight after the midnight bell, okay?"

Claude cast her a hesitant look, unsure whether he wanted to accept this offer.

"Please Claude," she begged.

He sighed. "Very well. I will meet you here promptly at midnight."

* * *

"Now, would you be so kind as to explain to me the nature of this little late night escapade?" Claude asked, wiping his forehead from the springtime heatwave.

"You'll see," she replied, looking around. "Come on."

She led him down the end of the bridge and proceeded down the concrete steps to the banks of the Seine.

_What are we doing, gypsy?_ He wondered, observing the calm river.

"We're going for a swim," she stated.

"Excuse me?" he asked surprised, hoping she was bluffing.

"You heard." She quickly pulled off her loose gypsy attire and tossed it aside.

Claude instinctively covered his eyes. "Celeste! What in God's name are you doing?!"

A loud splash of water providing an answer.

Celeste's head emerged from the water as she gasped for air. "I told you, Claude: going for a swim!"

"Are you mad?!" he asked frantically, still shielding his eyes and spinning around. "I am _not_ doing this!"

At first Celeste was a little annoyed at his prudish behavior, but grinned when she realized how to get him to get to comply…

"You won't? That's a shame, but I should have guessed."

"Guessed what?" he asked, tensing a bit.

"That you'd be too scared to do it," she egged him on.

"_Scared_?" he asked, taking note of being tested. "Please, why would _I _be scared?"

"Admit it: you're too afraid to do something like this-to do something _crazy_. And besides, drinking yourself sick isn't crazy, it's just stupid."

"And I suppose _this_ is a better alternative?"

"At least you won't wake up on the streets covered in your own sick."

Claude struggled a bit for an response, still avoiding looking at Celeste in the water. "I…just don't think it is morally acceptable for a woman to be seen exposed by someone other than her husband," he said frankly.

"Claude, I've known you for years and I've already seen what your back looks like, so there's no shame in that. And I don't care _you_ see me naked; you're my best friend and I told you, it's just swimming," she explained.

Claude made a slight grimace and glanced around; not a soul in sight.

"What if we're caught?" he asked nervously.

Celeste shrugged her exposed shoulders. "Where's the fun without risk?"

He took a few moments to think it over. The past few years, fate had not been very merciful to him or his intentions. Did he _really_ need more trouble in his life?

But still, there was also something about the idea of doing something so insane that got his heart racing.

He finally realized,_ What's the harm in a simple swim?_

"Alright, Celeste," he said.

_Have I completely lost my mind?_ He thought ruefully, pulling his shirt over his head and flinging it aside.

Celeste looked at the faded scars which were illuminated by the moonlight; they weren't as bad as they were years ago, but they were still a very nasty sight.

Claude shakily finished undressing and tossed his clothes away, standing buck naked.

"There," he said sharply, turning around to face Celeste. "Better?"

She gave him a wry grin. "Great. Now get in the water." Celeste knew how much it irked him to be challenged, and who was Claude Frollo to deny a challenge?

He stared at the river, paralyzed for a moment. Sighing, Claude trudged forward into the Seine, which was cool against the humidity.

Keeping only his neck above the water, he made his way towards Celeste who playfully splashed at him.

"See? Not so bad, right?" she teased.

"I suppose not," he said nonchalantly, pulling his wet hair out of his eyes.

"Come on," she nodded her head forward for him to follow her as she led him up the river.

They swam until they arrived near another bridge not too far from their rendezvous point, the city still quiet and asleep, thankfully.

Claude shook the water off of his face and sighed. "Alright, we went for a swim. May we leave now?" he asked.

"Oh please, Claude. I think it's good for you to get your mind off all that stress."

"Easy for you to say," he remarked. "You're not the one under all this pressure."

She looked at him with a bit of disbelief. "Could you at least _try_ to pretend like you're enjoying this?"

"That would make me a _liar_, now wouldn't it?" he bitingly said.

She huffed. "Why do you have be so negative all the time?"

Claude was stunned by this sudden question, almost angered by the very nerve of it. He didn't even notice the cool breeze upon his wet shoulders.

Was he _really_ so bitter at everything? He always assumed that people just stayed angry at the world all the time, never taking it as a form of hostility.

If there was one thing he learned about arguing, it was that you can always throw a person off by answering with another question.

"How on earth can _you_ be so positive all the time?" he retorted. Suddenly he could feel the anger heating up inside of him, his body being cooled by the water.

Celeste looked at him intensely. "Because," she began. "I know that no matter how bleak things may seem, they _will _eventually get better."

Curling his lip at her, he sourly replied, "That's very presumptuous, isn't it?"

"Call it what you want, but doesn't that seem better than having no hope at all?" She moved a little closer to him, a sympathetic look in her eyes.

"Maybe it's just foolishness."

"Claude," she said. "I understand that life hasn't always been easy for you-or anyone, but think about it: isn't it better to suffer now and enjoy things when it's over? You don't _have_ to be so resentful towards life; you just keep going and look towards the future. Shouldn't that Bible of yours say something about going through hard times?"

_And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you._

"In my defense," he argued. "I _have_ suffered enough for my pessimism to be justified."

"Claude, _everyone_ suffers at some point or another. My family's endured starvation, sickness, lack of shelter, and loss; believe me, I _know _what it means to suffer."

He stared at her, completely stunned; for as long as he had known her, Celeste was never one to complain about the hardships that she or her people had faced, hardly ever bringing them up. She faced them with her chin held high and ready for the next obstacle.

"Look," she continued. "I know people have hurt you and that's why you are the way you are, but you don't have to hold onto that anger all the time."

Claude hated the thought that for most of his life he was taught that suffering was the only guarantee in life, and all for one's own salvation. Yet somehow it only took one person (and non-Catholic at that) to show him that there is more to life than the face value he was taught, and (to a greater extent) actually took consideration towards his feelings. Claude felt that he at least owed her that much.

"I cannot change overnight, Celeste," he replied. "But I will take this idealism_ cum grano salis._"

She raised an eyebrow at him as though asking for a translation.

"_With a grain of salt_," he explained. "And I can _try_ not to be so adverse all the time…unless it is a harrowing situation, then I reserve the right to express my frustration."

Celeste shook her head at him and smirked. "Well, I guess that's the closest thing to a promise from you to stop being so tightly wound all the time, so I'll take it."

Claude smiled and shrugged his shoulders in response.

"Maybe this is why we've been friends for so long, Claude."

"Why's that?"

"We kind of balance each other out."

He nodded his head. "So, in light of that…what exactly _is_ the purpose of swimming in the middle of the night?"

"It's a way to unwind and forget all the negativity going on. You know, doing something to _relax_. Don't tell me you don't feel a little better being away from all that stress."

He did feel less tense; Claude felt as though nothing could hurt him here. For one of the first times in his life, he actually felt _safe._

"Admittingly, yes. I'm starting to feel surprisingly calm."

"Good," Celeste said, a playful smile on her lips. "You needed it."

The two spent quite some time swimming up and down the river, making slight comments at each other here and there to show that there were no hard feelings over the words exchanged.

Claude glanced and found himself intrigued by the moonlight's reflection in the water, finding it somewhat soothing.

_Nothing can ruin this moment…_

"I think I heard something over there!"

Claude broke away from his trance upon hearing the distant voice; one of his father's night patrolmen no doubt. Celeste gestured for him to follow her once again.

"I think it came from the river!"

Celeste took a deep breath and dove under the water, Claude following suit.

Slowly and quietly, they emerged from the water, hidden directly under a bridge.

Whispering, Claude tried to tell Celeste that they were going to get caught, only for her to clamp her hand over his mouth and raise a finger to her lips, urging him to keep quiet.

His heartbeat increased with the fear of being caught and turned over to his father. And how _thrilled_ would Nicolas Frollo be upon hearing that his son was skinny dipping with a gypsy?

"Do you see anything?" they heard one of them ask.

"Not a damn thing!" the other replied. "Well, if anything was out here, it's gone now."

"What if it was smugglers?"

"Then we missed them. Probably heard you a mile away and escaped! Ah well…we'll still just tell Minister Frollo that there were no disturbances tonight. Come on, rookie."

The two waited in the river and listened for the voices and metal footsteps to die out, but took another minute to make sure nobody else was around.

Claude exhaled with relief. "That was much too close for comfort. I hope you're happy in this little endeavor of yours, Celeste."

She looked at him expressionlessly, and then burst into uncontrollable laughter, which unsettled him a bit.

"And what is so amusing, might I ask?"

Containing her laughter a bit, Celeste replied, "Come on, you have to admit it was kind of funny, Claude."

Frowning in disapproval, he answered, "I see no humor in almost being caught by my father's lackeys."

"I told you," she continued. "There's no fun without a little risk."

He rolled his eyes at the naïveté, but he knew that he did feel a rush of adrenaline hiding from the guards. A bit of teenage mischief was like tasting the forbidden fruit that he vowed to steer clear of.

"Alright, Saint Claude, let's go," she said leading him back down the river back to where their clothes still lay on the banks.

Dressing in silence, Claude couldn't help but grin a little at this adventure, not at giving Celeste the satisfaction of knowing that he actually enjoyed their swim. Maybe this would be one instance of enjoyment he was allowed without repercussions.

He bid Celeste good night and turned to head home, eager to get some much needed sleep and to change out of his clothes that clung to his wet skin.

* * *

Claude clung to his books as he exited the university's grounds and thinking about going to find Celeste, only to be stopped by a scrawny looking soldier.

"Claude Frollo, the Minister requests your presence at the Palace of Justice immediately."

***A/n: Dun dun duuuunnnnnn! What awaits Claude at the Palace of Justice? Stay tuned to find out!**

**And I hoped you enjoy this kinda-sorta Claude/Celeste fluff stuff (which isn't my strong point). But you know me: there needs to be a really sappy chapter right before a much more negative one (see ch. 5-6).**

**Now I'm really not sure how much of this story is left. At this point, I'm essentially running on empty and pushing the car, so we'll see how much more I can conjure up without rushing to the already finished finale.**


	20. Consequences

"_Reims_?!" Claude expressed in shock. "How can you send your own son away like some outcast?"

Nicolas glared at him from his desk, remaining umoved. "I believe some time away from Paris will do you some good, Claude."

"But _why_?" he demanded, leaning forward on the heavy desk.

"This city has corrupted you, son. I think a change in atmosphere will do all of us a favor."

"I refuse to be ejected from my home and sent off to some other forsaken place. Paris is where I belong, Father!"

Nicolas rose to his feet and Claude stood up straight to face him.

"I apologize, _Your Lordship_," the Minister sarcastically said. "But I do not believe I was asking for your permission."

Trying to contain his anger, Claude calmly asked, "Would you at least tell me what brought on such an abrupt decision?"

His father smirked at him, his bearded façade most uninviting. "Does a little late night dip in the Seine with some gypsy tramp sound at all familiar?"

Claude felt his chest tighten at his words and choked a little for air. His mouth went dry, afraid to respond.

Nicolas continued his condescending gaze. "Did you really believe that you wouldn't be discovered? I have guards all over this city! Remember, Claude: just because you don't see _them_, does not mean they don't see _you._"

The only thing Claude could go do was stare agape at his father in bewilderment, unsure of how to explain himself. Father and son stood in mutual silence for a while, waiting for one or the other to say something.

"So then," Claude nervously began. "That's that? You're sending me away as punishment?"

"In a nutshell, yes," he replied breaking eye-contact and began pacing across the book-laden study. "I've heard that, apparently, you have kept company with this gypsy for some time, though I'm not sure for how long, precisely. These gypsies have been a negative influence on you and distancing yourself from her will help you remember who _you_ are, and what he_ she_ is."

It pained Claude to be reminded of the stark line that divided him and his friend; class structure was something he had been raised to appreciate for his place in society, but now it truly struck him what it meant to be separated in this world. Even though Celeste was his closest friend, he was expected not to be associated with her kind.

Defiance stirred in the sullen teen. "And what makes you so sure that I will allow you to send me off to Reims so easily?" he asked.

"Because, you poor naïve boy," his father replied. "Should you try to escape this, I can just as easily issue a warrant for your arrest. And believe me, I am not above imprisoning my own son, especially if I can use that to remind the people not to cross me. You _will _go to Reims, and that is final."

Claude's stare shifted to the floor. It was true: no matter where he went, his father would find him and he would have to face the consequences, just as he always had.

"Father, please," he tried not to sound like a pathetic beggar. "Surely this cannot be the only way to handle this situation. Is there no other way that I might be able to earn your forgiveness?

"Claude, the damage has been done. If word gets out that I let your little adventure go unpunished, I could lose control of the city. No, you've embarrassed me quite enough already. Besides, I need to suppress rumors floating around the city-all these peasants calling me an uncaring father and what not!"

Claude bit his tongue to keep from spitting out some biting comment knowing that the battle was already lost.

"How long will I be gone?" he asked.

"I think a year will be enough time for you to rehabilitate your ways. Perhaps you can return around summertime."

_A whole year?_ He thought sadly.

"And how long before I depart from the city?"

"A week, I say," Nicolas replied, unfazed by his son's obvious pain. "Perhaps by Monday."

"Monday…" Claude silently repeated, looming over this information. He envisioned the hourglass's sands running fast, time getting shorter.

"Now that that's cleared up, you may take your leave, "Nicolas said, waving him away and sitting back down to busy himself with legal work.

Without another word, Claude turned and exited his father's office.

Descending the great marble staircase and across the throngs of lawyers and city officials, barely aware of his surroundings as he numbly left the Palace of Justice.

Outside, he gazed at the building for a while as thoughts collided in his head. He remembered as a child asking his father why their family didn't live there. Nicolas told him that spending every waking moment in that place would drive a person mad. It confused him that someone could show disdain for such an impressive piece of architecture, but now it just seemed like Hell on earth, housed by some wicked beast inside.

Right now the last thing he wanted to do was see or speak to anyone, needing some well-deserved seclusion.

He stared blankly at the river as he sat on the banks, thinking over and over of what he had just been told.

How was he supposed to tell Celeste?

_What_ was he supposed to tell her? That his moment of teenage rebellion had cast him out of his father's home and now he was supposed to leave Paris by next week? The thought created a crushing pain in his chest. True, he had acquaintances and others with whom he associated, but no one ever struck him the way Celeste did.

He needed answers…

* * *

"Hello, Claude. What can I do for you?" Father Augustin greeted as he lit some candles.

"Father, I was wondering if you could help me with something," Claude said.

"That would depend on the nature of the situation. Come," he said leading Claude to sit down in an open pew. "Now, what seems to be the problem?"

Claude sighed a little. "The Minister is sending me away from Paris. He thinks that I need to distance myself from "negative influences." The worst part is that I will be gone for an entire year!"

The archdeacon listened empathetically to Claude's words.

"The problem, Father, is how am I supposed to explain to Celeste about this?"

"Well, Claude, the way I see it, there are two ways to go about this: you can either tell her as soon as possible and discuss the future of your friendship, or you can wait until the time for your departure draw nearer and tell her, which I doubt she will take pleasantly," he explained. "Just honestly explain that the situation is out of your control and you have to leave."

Claude pinched the bridge of his nose at the ugly truth in the situation: there really was no way of delivering the news lightly.

"The sooner, the better," Augustin said. "May I ask what caused your father to make such a rash decision?"

Claude vaguely answered, "He wasn't very pleased upon hearing about my companionship with Celeste. As always, he told me that I shouldn't be associating with gypsies."

"Then I hope for your sake, this whole ordeal won't change anything between you two. I know how much she means to you, Claude."

"She is my best friend and I don't want all this distance to put a hindrance on our friendship."

"I'm sure that you two will come to an understanding."

"I hope so."

When Claude left Notre Dame, the sun was setting since he had spent another hour or so praying for anything that could ease this pain.

_Tomorrow_, he thought.

* * *

"Claude, what's this about?" Celeste asked as Claude led her away from the gypsy camp.

"There is something that we must discuss, Celeste," he stated, still holding onto her wrist. He led her down the path until there was a reasonable amount of distance between them and the camp.

Celeste looked intensely at her friend who was obviously unsettled. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Claude nervously looked to the ground as he choked out the words. "My father has made a…sudden decision, unfortunately."

A grave expression on her face, Celeste asked, "What do you mean?"

Claude explained everything in a sullen tone, sharing her grief over the situation, but avoided telling her that it was her skinny-dipping challenge that caused it. Celeste backed away at the news, cupping her hand over her mouth in disbelief.

"He can't really just send you away like this, can he?" she asked half-angrily, half-hopefully.

"Unfortunately, with the immense power he holds, he can do what he pleases."

"Claude, _you can't go_!" she pleaded, choking back tears.

"If it were that simple, my dear, I would stay in Paris in a heartbeat. However, this is not the case and I'm afraid I have no choice."

Suddenly, he found himself locked in Celeste's embrace, her tears staining the fabric of his tunic.

"Claude, please," she whispered, latching onto him tight.

Lightly placing his hand on her back, he attempted to comfort her. "Don't worry. We will not allow a few miles to end our friendship."

Pulling away from him, Celeste wiped away her tears and said, "How? I doubt that your father will allow you to visit when he's trying to keep you away from Paris."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, Claude assured her they would find a way. "Perhaps I can write to you. I did not spend all that time teaching you to read for it all to be in vain, did I?" he said, casting her an assured smile with his thin lips.

Reaching for his spindly hands and holding them lightly, Celeste mused over the idea. "Still," she said. "I don't want you to leave. It won't be the same without you, Claude."

"I promise that nothing will change but the distance," he said, a little confused by her hand-holding.

"I need some time to think about this" stepping back and giving him a saddened expression. "I'll see you tomorrow." Before walking back toward the camp.

Claude exhaled deeply. With less than a week left in the city, now he lost another day.

_That went well_, he contemplated. However, Claude knew that the next few days would be spent preparing for his departure.

* * *

"So, where will I be residing during this endeavor?" Claude asked as he sat at the table for dinner that night.

"I'm glad you asked," Nicolas said, still chewing. "I have arranged for you stay with an old friend of mine." Downing another glass of wine. "He was a minister in Paris for several years before transferring to Reims; his name is Hugo Lagarde. You will be staying in his home with him and his wife. They're very kind people, and besides, old Hugo owed me a favor, so taking you in seemed to be payment."

Claude took a moment to think about it before then asking, "Will I be allowed to take Damocles, or will the poor boy be stuck here without a rider?"

"Hugo's estate has stables and enough room to accommodate Damocles."

"Very well," Claude stoically responded. "Since I have never ventured to Reims, will I be provided some sort of map or anything?"

Nicolas laughed patronizingly. "Please! After every idiotic move you have made, do you honestly expect me to trust you to journey all the way out of the city alone and hope that you won't try to run away? What kind of fool do you take me for?"

Claude said nothing as his father finished his laughter. "No, I will make sure that you are escorted to Reims without trouble."

_Being watched over like a child_, Claude griped at internally. _Simply mortifying._

That night, Claude lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering how Celeste was taking the news. When he finally fell asleep, he was haunted by memories:

_There was the time he and Celeste traveled to the outside of the city and spent the day climbing trees, Claude walking away with several scrapes and bruises, but still smiling…_

_The time a boy from his class referred to Celeste as a "street-rat," only for Claude to respond by getting into a fight with him; Claude going into a fit of rage until the boy lay on the ground, sniveling and crying for mercy…_

_The time during his stint in the monastery he snuck out at night to attend a gypsy wedding that Celeste had invited him to. The night was filled with wine, song, and dance in whole-hearted celebration…_

Claude awoke suddenly with his hair clinging to his forehead from sweat. He was confused by these dreams until he looked at the emerging sunrays shining through the curtains of his window and realized that he would have to work something out with Celeste.

* * *

Claude was surprised that during the last few days in Paris, he had barely seen Celeste around. When he entered the gypsy camp, usually he was told that she was either not there or busy. Late in the day on Saturday, he was lucky enough to catch her while she was heading home and inform her that he had arranged for one of the gypsies from her camp to play messenger to help them keep in contact with one another during the year.

"That's great, Claude," she said gloomily and looking away from him.

Slightly irritated at her passiveness, he then asked, "Why have you been avoiding me? I'll be gone in two days!"

She stared into his gray eyes sorrowfully and said, "Because it hurts to see you since you're going to be leaving. I know we should be spending as much time as we can together until you go, but…I just hate the thought of not seeing my best friend for a very long time." She attempted to blink away the tears building up, but some still escaped.

"What about tomorrow?" Claude suddenly asked. "It will be my last day in Paris, so why not make the most of that time?"

"You really mean it?"

"After mass, I will come and find you and we will spend the day together. How does that sound?" He gave her a cunning grin.

"It sounds great," she offered a small smile.

Sure enough, Claude kept his promise and followed Celeste around the city as they reminisced about old adventures and memories from their childhood. They visited the alley where Celeste first found Claude after a beating from his bullies six years ago; under the trees outside the city walls where Claude taught her how to read, and to a darker extent, when he nearly killed Martin Dupreaux when he was ten; and of course, Notre Dame, which would always be Claude's safe haven. They remembered the first time Celeste ever entered the cathedral, and when they would sneak up to the bell tower, carefully avoiding the deaf bell-ringer, to admire the view of the city from above.

_Where has the time gone?_ He thought nostalgically.

Of course, when the day came to a close, they rested at the bridge where it seemed they had spent their whole friendship.

"Somehow it always ends at this very bridge, doesn't it?" Claude wondered aloud leaning against the edge.

Celeste chuckled, standing by his side. "Always," she agreed, admiring the orange sky. "So, when do you leave tomorrow?"

"Daybreak," he replied regretfully. "He wants me out of the city as soon as possible."

Celeste sighed. "Well, then, maybe you should get home and get some rest. You're going to need it...So, I guess this is the last time we'll be seeing each other for a while."

"I suppose so," he said turning to her.

Celeste threw her arms around him and held him tightly, which he returned. He thought about how different they were: he was a pale, rigid student dressed in a simple but expensive black tunic, and she was free-spirited, bronze-skinned gypsy in her orange skirt and gold bracelets. There would probably never be another quite like her.

"I'm going to miss you, Claude," she said, her brown eyes locking with his. "Take care of yourself, alright? Be careful."

"And you as well," he said smiling.

With a smirk, she teasingly replied, "Excuse me, but I seem to remember _me _teaching _you_ how to fight."

"How could I forget?" he grinned. "Still, be safe Celeste. I'm going to miss you tremendously, my friend," he said as he pulled away from her embrace.

"Goodbye, Claude," she morosely.

"Goodbye," before he turned and began his way home.

* * *

The morning of departure seemed to be a blur as he bid farewell to his family. His mother tearfully wishing him well on his journey, while his father simply stating that he expected Claude to be a "new man" when he returned next year. Melancholia washed over him even when the sun was emerging from the gray morning.

Claude rode his way out of the city accompanied by his father's escorting guards. Celeste, hidden behind buildings, watched sadly as her friend left Paris.

***A/n: I did not mean for it to take me so long to do this chapter. We're getting closer to the end now...but not without a couple more chapters. Anyway, _what's gonna happen?! _Friendship put to the test as feelings arise. **

**It might take me a while to do the next chapter as well since this week's gonna be pretty busy with a government class debate and rhetoric assignment coming up. Thank you guys for the support, it always means a lot!**


	21. Being Honest

Upon arrival in Reims, Claude showed little interest in his new home. To him, the place was just a smaller version of Paris, only dirtier and less serious with their law enforcement, much to his disdain. He could barely even identify with their local cathedral, never feeling at home with it like Notre Dame. But he was still completely dedicated to his education and worked hard to become one of the best students at Reims's university.

Despite this attitude, Hugo Lagarde and his wife Ingrid welcomed Claude Frollo into their home with open arms, taking him like a son they never had. He was pleasantly surprised by their hospitality, expecting any associate of his father's to be just as cold and cruel as him.

Due to the couple's old age, he was glad that they never chided him over small things as he was accustomed to. Usually he found himself enraptured in conversation with the old minister for hours discussing theology, law, and anything else that piqued their mutual interest as the two sat in the Lagardes' library. Because of Claude's interest in canon law, Hugo would shine some light on the subject by giving him a few tips. However, his approach was not as severe as Nicolas's in the sense that he never suggested that gypsies alone were the cause of all the evils of society.

"I am sorry to say that that's what been taught to me my entire life," Claude said.

"You don't actually _believe_ that, do you, Claude?" Hugo asked almost accusingly.

"Not necessarily. I suppose every group has their faults and fortunes, and the gypsies are no different and cannot be blamed for _every_ negative aspect of society."

"_Not necessarily_…" Hugo pondered giving Claude a quizzical look. "Interesting that the Minister of Justice's son would feel so strongly about a group as ill-favored as the Romani people. Usually young minds just inherit their teachers' prejudices without a second thought. Tell me, Claude: what influenced you to be so…_open-minded_?"

Claude knew he was heading into dangerous territory and had to be careful with his answers. "I simply don't believe that one group can be blamed for everyone's misfortunes. After all, humans commit sin and must face punishment for their doings, some more than others," he explained, his eyes darting away to pretend as though he was admiring the library's contents.

Hugo gave a wrinkled smirk at the boy's answer. "I am surprised that you don't share in your father's image of the gypsies. It takes a strong mind to break away from the mentality that has been enforced all its life…_or a certain someone_."

Claude glanced at the old man before replying, "I do not know what you are talking about."

"Really? So any normal person gets up at the crack of dawn to stand by the city gates every morning in hopes of meeting some mangy vagrant to hand off secret letters?"

Claude's eyes bugged at Hugo's words. It was true: Every morning for the past few weeks, he would wait for about an hour to see if a messenger had any news from Celeste back in Paris, occasionally receiving a message from her, before giving his letter for her. Luckily, this messenger he hired was a native from the gypsy camp who knew her and promised to keep it secret.

"How did you find out?" he asked anxiously.

"I've seen you rush off to the gates to meet that gypsy a few times while I walked about the city early in the morning."

Claude felt ashamed for having to sneak around, and aggravated that he had been caught.

"Is everything alright?" The two turned and saw Lady Ingrid Lagarde entering the open library to see what all the fuss was about.

"Everything is just fine, Ingrid," Hugo stated, rolling his eyes at her intrusion on the conversation.

"Then what's all this about secret letters and meetings, then?" the old woman inquired.

Claude rested his hand on his face over the fact that now another person knew the truth.

"Claude has been secretly sending letters to somebody in Paris, although I'm not sure what is so wrong about that," Hugo explained.

Taking a seat on the other side of the couch where her husband sat, Lady Ingrid asked, "Is it a girl?"

Heart rate increasing, Claude ambiguously and shakily answered, "It's a very close friend."

"Claude, there's no need to be ashamed if that's the case," she assured.

"And besides, we're not going to write to your father about this," Hugo stated. "Every man has been at that point some time or another in his life. Now, _is_ _it a girl_?"

Feeling a little less agitated, Claude slowly answered, "Yes, it is."

"She must be special then," Lady Ingrid admired.

"She is, because she has been my best friend for the past six years," he stated.

"And _she_ changed your view on gypsies?" Hugo asked.

Shrugging, Claude then said, "Well, she _is_ a gypsy, so I learned to be more tolerant, I suppose."

Hugo was baffled at this; it surprised him that Claude Frollo would even know a girl, let alone befriend one-but a _gypsy_? Unheard of, especially considering who his father was.

"And the Minister has no problem with your friendship?" he asked.

"The only way I have been able to keep our companionship alive was by _not_ telling him. That is why he sent me to Reims in the first place: as soon as he found out about us, he feared that I would be brainwashed by her. I promised her that I would not let this put a damper between us."

"Best that we don't inform the Minister about _this_ then!" Hugo laughed.

"You must care a great deal about her to go to such lengths to keep in touch," said Lady Ingrid.

Claude nodded, keeping a serious face, trying not to think so much about Celeste. It felt good to be able to discuss something like this with people who actually seemed to care, which was more than he could say about his own parents.

"Don't worry, Claude," Ingrid said smiling reassuringly. "With all that you have done, I'm sure this girl cares about you just as much as you care about her."

He nodded again. His lips gave a small frown at the uncertainty he faced wondering how Celeste was doing without him, or if she was even thinking about him.

* * *

Celeste sat on the steps of her caravan as she read through Claude's latest letter, smiling at the fact that even on paper she could still hear the bitterness and annoyance in his words as he expressed his distaste over various aspects of Reims. She read through as he complained about the endless amounts of drunks lying around the streets compared to Paris. He wrote that the city harbored the "worst excuse for law enforcement" he had ever seen, especially during this summer heat wave.

"Another letter from the Minister's son?" Celeste looked up as Marcel stood in front of her with a knowing grin.

"And what if it is?" she replied bitterly, pulling the parchment closer to her.

Marcel shrugged. "I just wonder about how you can even stay friends with a person like him. I mean, he just packed up and left."

She shot him a defensive look. "Claude had no choice and had to leave. Besides, if he didn't care about our friendship, he wouldn't be writing."

"Celeste, he can't _really_ be worth all this trouble. I mean, his father murders our people without batting an eye. How can you possibly stay friends with him after all that?"

Celeste remembered when Claude asked that same question years ago and how he expressed guilt and confusion over the staying power of their friendship.

"He's different," she stated confidently. "He _isn't_ like the Minister. I know you don't like him, but he's actually sweet and compassionate. Claude has a good heart and cares." She knew that this kind of attitude about him annoyed Marcel to no end, and would hopefully prompt him to leave her alone.

Marcel scoffed at the idea. "Whatever you say, Celeste. But just remember that he's a Frollo and his kind are _all _the same: selfish and willing to hurt anyone who gets in their way. Something tells me that he isn't always going to be that "sweet and compassionate" scholar that you know him as. So whatever feelings you might have for him, be careful. He's not a normal person, even you know that."

"I don't think Claude would want to hurt me, Marcel," she said. "Besides, our friendship is none of your concern."

Shuffling away, Marcel then warned, "Just remember what I said: be careful with him."

She knew that; since they were kids and she was the one to offer him support during time of crisis. True, Claude had his moments, but something about him and his conflicting personas intrigued her. Whether he was his regular, serious self, or showed his more vulnerable and human side, Claude had always managed to make her feel like she was needed. They had always been by each other's side in times of trouble, and now she realized how much she truly missed him…how much she wished he was there with her.

And now that he was all the way in Reims, she was to wait until next summer before she saw her friend again…

* * *

Claude made due with his life in Reims, trying to avoid as much trouble as he could. Whether it was drinking in moderation, or avoiding going out with fellow students (lest he wanted to repeat the Pomme d'Eve incident). He figured that if he just kept to himself, the rest of his time there would go by faster.

However, the one thing he enjoyed about Reims was living with the Lagarde family, finding them to be a surrogate to his own family. Hugo was an encouraging paternal figure, while Ingrid was compassionate and empathetic towards Claude and others.

Still, Claude always thought of Celeste, never stopping in sending his letters to her. She wrote when she could, making sure to when his birthday came around in November. When winter approached, it became more difficult to send to her, the heavy snow threatening to freeze the gypsy man's toes off if he had to keep going back and forth between cities. Because of this, Claude had to write to her explaining that he would not be able to mail her until around January.

Come January, Claude sneered as Celeste recounted the year's Festival of Fools, and how Marcel and René were almost arrested for starting an intoxicated fight amongst the crowd.

_Drunken, lecherous fools,_ he thought sanctimoniously. _She is above such nonsense festivities. _

Spring was a much more upbeat season as Celeste wrote of an upcoming gypsy wedding that was to take place in the next few weeks and how spring was a time where many a gypsy child was born.

For Claude, springtime just meant that there were only a couple more months until he could return to Paris, eager to reunite with his friend again. Until then, his sole purpose was to focus on his studies. Now at age seventeen, Claude had once again rose to reputation for his thirst for knowledge and striving to be the best student at the university.

Still, he would find himself thinking about her, his family, and others he left behind in Paris. He would wonder if his parents missed him at all during his time away, or if Father Augustin feared for Claude's soul. The questions would become very distracting until he pulled himself back to the present.

_Focus on the matters at hand!_ He would remind himself, delving back into his studies.

He couldn't wait to get back to Paris in the summertime…

* * *

Unbeknownst to Claude, Paris had been going under more significant change: Nicolas Frollo strengthened his campaign against the gypsies in the past year, persecuting any of them convicted of even the smallest offense.

The gypsies took refuge to the Court of Miracles underground, which was quickly filling up. By the look of the limited space and crowding, it didn't look like there was going to be much room left for the rest of endangered ones on the streets.

"We need to get out of Paris!" Felix explained as the rest of the camp gathered. "Frollo's gone mad and the city is no longer safe for us!"

The gypsies nodded in agreement, some asking where they were supposed to go.

"Anywhere but here! Be it in the next city over, or skipping the country altogether, we gypsies have to get to safety and should leave as soon as we can!"

As the rest of the camp dispersed back to their caravans and tents, Celeste approached her father. "Papa, I can't just leave now-not when Claude is about to return in only a few weeks!"

Felix sighed and rested his hand apologetically on his daughter's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Celeste, but we might not have a few weeks to wait around for Claude's return. We need to think about the well-being of our people first."

"Then at least let me stay here and wait for him to come back. I can catch up with the rest of you later," she begged. "I need to see my best friend after a whole year! Please, Papa!"

"You can't just stay here by yourself!" he protested.

"Well, I'm not leaving Paris until I see Claude again." She crossed her arms and looked stern as she stood her ground.

"Celeste, you can't be serious! He's just a boy!"

"I _need_ to see him. At least once."

Felix couldn't help but admire his daughter's dedication to her cause. "Does it really mean that much to see him again?"

"If I leave the city without seeing Claude, I'll never forgive myself."

Felix looked up at the sky in thought. "How long before he is expected to return?"

"He said about two weeks."

Rubbing the back of his neck in contemplation, Felix replied, "Fine. We'll wait until Frollo gets back, but right after you see him we _have_ to leave!"

"Agreed," she said. "Thank you, Papa!" She hugged her father in gratitude and hoped that Claude would get back sooner.

* * *

Claude smiled as he saw Notre Dame come into view as he rode down the path towards the city. When he left Reims, he was honestly a little sad to say goodbye to his guardians, assuring them that he would see the Lagarde family again.

_Paris,_ he thought as he admired the city on this bright afternoon. _It's been too long._

Unfortunately for him, he was to first report to the Minister at the Palace of Justice and then get settled back home, something he wished could wait until later.

Arriving, he took in the view of the Palace, feeling like it was an eternity since he had last been here. After informing the servants of his identity, Claude was immediately rushed to the Minister's office, who was busy filling out a mountain of paperwork until he looked up to see his son standing before him.

"You're back," he simply said, standing up.

"Yes I am," Claude replied, not surprised by his father's lack of emotion. "and now that you know that I have returned, may I please take my leave?" The last thing he wanted to do was talk to the very same man who sent him away from his home.

Nicolas glanced at the amount of work he had, and replied, "Very well. Glad you're home, hope you had a safe trip, etcetera. Now, get home. No doubt your mother will be pleased to see her prodigal son return."

Claude was glad for the short reunion from his father. He couldn't say the same for his mother, who broke down and clung to him upon seeing him when he entered the Frollo manor.

"Promise me that you will never do something to make your father cast you out like that again!" Jean-Marie wept, gripping her son tightly by the arms, her blonde hair falling into her eyes. Her display of emotion was all a bit unsettling for her son, as he wanted to pry her grip off of him.

Claude mindlessly promised and endured the rest of the day as his parents threw a celebration in honor of his return. But he was not interested in the party or the people in attendance. He promised that he would find Celeste when he returned to the city and he would.

_After this nightmare_, he thought before returning to the party.

The next day, Claude woke up bright and early to start heading down the familiar road that would lead to the gypsy camp.

However, when he arrived, he was shocked to see that almost all of the caravans had vanished, leaving only about five.

"Celeste?" he called out as he entered.

Hearing some rummaging from one of the caravans, the door flew open as Celeste poked her head through, her eyes resting on Claude. A smile stretching across her face, she ran forward and wrapped her arms around him, her bracelets jingling happily.

"Claude, you're back!" she gleefully said, tears of joy escaping her eyes. "I missed you!"

"It's good to see you again, Celeste!" he said, pulling away from her hug. "I have so much to discuss with you!"

"Me too, Claude," she tried not to sound too mysterious. "Me too…"

Despite her father's warning, Celeste dragged Claude around the city, getting reacquainted and sharing their stories of the past year. Claude talking about his studies, the city of Reims, and the Lagarde family while Celeste listened with open ears and shared her own tales.

"So," he began. "Has much changed in my absence?"

"Actually, yes," she responded, her smile disappearing.

Claude looked concerned over this. "What?"

"Paris has become less safe for gypsies." Celeste went on to explain Minister Frollo's actions and ongoing quest to eradicate them from the city.

"We have to leave, Claude," she stated regretfully.

"But where are you supposed to go?" he asked anxiously.

"We're planning on leaving France and traveling to Bohemia."

"_Bohemia_?!" Claude was now frantic. He had just gotten home and now his life was being thrown through a loop again. "Why there?!"

"We have family over there, and we know we'll be safer there than in Paris."

"Celeste, please. I have just returned home after _a year_ in Reims, and now I come back to this kind of news?! You can't just leave like this!"

"That's what I need to talk to you about, Claude," she said calmly. "I need to ask you something."

"What is it?" he asked nervously.

"Will you come with us?"

Claude was paralyzed by the question, how direct it was…how sudden it was.

"Come with you?" he repeated. "To Bohemia?"

Celeste took his hands in hers. "Yes. Get away from all of these things and people-your enemies, your father. Let's go somewhere we can be free."

The weight of her suggestion overwhelmed him, leaving him feeling numb even as his hands still lingered in hers.

Celeste then said, "Let's get married. I love you, Claude."

***A/n: (Kyle Schwartz voice) I'M BAAAACCCCKKKKK! **

**Super busy week, what with tests, an awful government debate, and other crap. The nightmare continues with a lab report due next week and tech rehearsals coming up. I finished this last night at 2 in the morning, but the site crashed and I couldn't upload the chapter.**

**Anyway...what's going to happen in these next couple of chapters? How will Frollo respond? Only time will tell! Leave reviews**


	22. The Trial of Claude Frollo

Claude felt the wind being knocked out of him upon hearing these words an his face looked paler than usual.

"You…_love_ me?" he asked, unsure if he heard correctly.

"Yes. I love you, Claude Frollo," she said again. "I want us to be together. So, will you marry me?"

He was frozen in place as he considered everything she said. _Do you "love" her?_ He asked himself. Claude always knew that he cared for Celeste, but _love _her? This was the ultimate test of faith and loyalty.

But reality struck him: he couldn't just abandon everything to run off with his best friend.

He could picture the woe his mother would be overcome with if she heard that her seventeen year-old son had eloped with a gypsy girl and joined their traveling caravan. And the shame that she and, worst of all, his father would face from their associates. Nicolas could lose his title as Minister of Justice and Jean-Marie could be scorned by other noblewomen. Their status…who knows what would happen to them?

On top of that, all the work he had put into his studies all these years would mean nothing given this kind of notoriety.

And all because he acted on impulse and ran away with his friend.

Claude knew that wasn't who he was; he had to do what was right.

Pulling his hands away, Claude looked sternly at her and replied, "I'm sorry, Celeste, but my place is here in Paris."

Celeste stared at him agape, shocked at his response-one that she wasn't prepared for.

Claude sighed as he saw her disbelief. "I don't think I can just pack up and leave everything again. You have always been my closest friend, but I can't do that to my family. I have too much invested in this city to just abandon it for a nomadic lifestyle."

Celeste looked at the ground in disappointment. "I thought you loved me too, but…I guess not."

Grabbing her by the shoulders, he said, "Please, Celeste, don't think I want to ruin our friendship like this! I'm just not ready to get married and leave everything behind."

"I understand, Claude," she plainly said, shrugging away his hands. "You have your priorities."

"Celeste, please don't let this be the end," he begged, his breathing turning ragged at the thought of permanently losing his friend.

"No, of course not," she barely glanced at him, a tear running down her cheek. "We'll still be friends, but I'm still leaving tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" his heart sank as he looked as the day was drawing to a close.

"I think I should be going," she said. She hugged him tightly. She craned her neck a little and lightly kissed him on the cheek, which he surprisingly accepted. "I still love you, Claude."

"Celeste, please…" he murmured.

She turned and walked away. Claude, unable to do or say anything, remained statue-like as he watched Celeste leave.

In one day, he had gone from total euphoria to sheer agony.

The next morning, Claude woke up suddenly remembering that Celeste would be leaving. Quickly pulling on his clothes, he bolted out the door of the house and down the path.

_Please still be here, Celeste,_ he begged as he ran.

When the clearing came into the view, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that the remaining caravans had vanished, feeling almost surreal. Sweat running down his forehead, he made his way to the barren area and examined it with a sudden nostalgia.

The laughter, the grief, the fights, everything that had happened on this small patch of land where once dozens of gypsy families lived together was now devoid of anything but a campfire pit, long extinguished.

He remembered how his last words to her were barely even a sentence and chided himself for the sheer stupidity in them.

As he numbly looked over the patch of land, Claude reassuringly thought to himself, _You'll see her again soon. She'll be back, just wait and see…_

* * *

Days passed and Claude kept his hopes up that any day now, Celeste would sneak up on him and surprise him with her return. However, weeks began to pass and he began to feel that hope fading away. Summer progressed into fall and he began to fall into a deep depression.

Claude would try to distract himself with his studies, but with less passion than he previously had. All in all, it felt empty to gather new information without someone to teach it to. He would rather do that than debate with a fellow student who he felt had not quite grasped the lesson like him.

_Simpletons_, he thought as he overheard them _incorrectly_ discuss the philosophy of Thomas Aquinas.

He received no such joy in trying to educate the masses, which is why he liked to discuss his studies with Celeste: because she wouldn't argue with him over such matters. It was an egotistical and narcissistic thing to think that one reason he loved talking to her was to assert his intelligence, but it was something that he held an unacknowledged pride in.

Without such a conceited aspect of his relationship with Celeste, there was no denying that he actually missed what she did for him: she cared about him. At first it baffled him to actually hear someone say that they loved him, considering he had no recollection of ever hearing such words fall from another person's lips. Throughout most of his life, Claude had coasted through life under the assumption that the only love came from a punitive God, but now when he thought about all the considerate gestures she made and her subsequent declaration of love, it all made sense.

Good God, was he falling under such a spell now too?

_Of course not,_ he thought. _There is no such place and time for such ridiculous infatuations of the mind. It will pass. You just miss your friend, nothing more._

But even he couldn't deny that he at least missed having someone who he could openly discuss things with. There truly was a sense of loneliness which at times had been relieving, but now left him with a painful feeling in his gut.

Claude was more distant than usual, though nobody could really figure out why, not that many wanted to inquire. To some, such as his parents, he was still the moody know-it-all teen that he always was, unbeknownst to them, he was emotionally crippled inside.

What was worse was that at times when he sat down at dinner, he listened as his father boisterously praised himself for almost completely wiping out the "gypsy scum" from their beloved city.

"Of course there is still much work to be done, but soon Paris will be free of such impurities! If I could drive them off the face of the earth, I would in a heartbeat!" the Minister proclaimed.

_You have already driven out my friend, so why should it matter now?_ Claude mused as he picked at his food, anger boiling inside of him yet repressing every urge to rise up and strike down this deplorable man.

When he felt unbearably nostalgic, the young man would usually find himself at their bridge, staring down at the water below and running memories through his mind endlessly. Sometimes he would remain there for hours, the cold autumn air whipping his hands and his nose (not that he noticed), wondering where Celeste was and wondering how and what she was doing.

* * *

Celeste drifted down the dirt path while a light gray overcast hung over the sky. The gypsy caravan had stopped to rest for the day on the outskirts of Nuremberg on their way to Bohemia. While the rest of the group stayed close together near a campfire to stay warm, Celeste had decided to be alone with her thoughts.

"So," she turned around to see curly-haired Marcel walking towards her. "Nuremberg was a quaint little town to see, right?" he asked, attempting to make small talk.

"It was very nice," Celeste replied unemotionally and detached, staring at the ground.

"What's wrong?" he asked, despite the fact that he already knew what was bothering her, thanks to René's intel.

She cast him a slightly annoyed look. "You know perfectly well what's bothering me, Marcel."

He rolled his eyes a little. "I know you miss _him_, but we're out of that God-forsaken city and are starting a new life somewhere else!" He said optimistically, trying to lift her spirits. "Besides, Celeste, you shouldn't worry about a man who turned down your proposal."

_He might have been a pain in the neck at times,_ she thought. _But I still miss that arrogant son-of-a-bitch._

She missed him and his holier-than-thou attitude, his sarcastic quips, even small things like his crooked nose and gray eyes.

She frowned at his words. "Maybe I shouldn't worry about his feelings towards marriage, but I still miss him since he's my friend."

"I know, but still: he didn't return that love and you shouldn't beat yourself over it." Stepping closer to her, Marcel continued, "If Frollo couldn't accept the love that was offered by this amazing girl, well, then that's his loss."

Celeste tried to stifle her smile, feeling a little reassured by Marcel's words. "Thank you, Marcel," she said, stepping closer to give him a friendly hug.

"Trust me," he said. "Time away from Paris will really help you."

Giving him a wry grin, she replied, "Perhaps, but I still wish I could wish Claude a happy birthday."

* * *

Claude awoke to a dreary morning feeling particularly heavyhearted, but it was still his eighteenth birthday. However, something didn't feel right; he felt as though there was some impending doom or unwelcome surprise that was to appear. Nevertheless, he went through the motions and dressed himself for the day before exiting the manor.

As he walked through the streets, Claude was taken back to the memories of each birthday when he would reluctantly welcome Celeste's annual birthday punches. Come to think of it, she really was the only one who really acknowledged his birthday, and even these celebratory bruises were better gifts than any birthday abuse he had been used to which made him dread the day.

_What I would give just for those marks again,_ he contemplated.

"Master Frollo!" a gruff voice called, shaking him from his thoughts. A soldier on horseback drew up to him. "You are requested at the Palace of Justice at once."

Sighing, he said, "Very well. I will be there in no time." With this, the soldier took off in the other direction.

_What on earth could he want right now?_ Claude unwillingly made his way towards the Palace of Justice.

Usually when he was called in by his father, Claude was overcome with a looming fear of whatever punishment was to ensue. But today, he was free of such worry for some reason, since it would only confirm his suspicions from earlier of some kind of imminent danger.

Opening the heavy wooden door, he pushed forward and greeted, "You called for me, Minister?"

Nicolas looked up from his desk to his son. "I did. Come in," he motioned Claude forward and rose from his desk.

"First of all," the Minister began. "It is your birthday, is it not?"

"It is," Claude remained stoic.

"Good. Then now will be as good a time as any to surprise you with the news."

Growing a little cautious, Claude asked, "What news?"

Smiling, Nicolas crossed the room, hands behind him, to the window and looked down on the city. "I am to step down as Minister of Justice in a few months."

Claude was awestruck at this. He knew how much his father valued his position and all that it gave him and his family. Why would he suddenly resign?

"_Step down_? Why on earth would you give up your position now, Father?"

"Because, Claude, I am nearing fifty and I think I have done quite enough in the past twenty years. Besides, there's more news…"

"And what's that?" Now Claude was becoming tenser at the anticipation of more news.

"Your mother and I are expecting another child."

Claude's eyebrows shot upwards and he grimaced a bit. "I'm sorry. What?" He asked in complete astonishment.

"That's right, Claude. You are going to have a brother or sister. Believe me, for years we had tried to conceive another child after you, but I would never have guessed it would be so late in our marriage. I suppose it makes sense though: at thirty-six, your mother is still fertile enough to have another. But yes, after I leave office, we will retire back to Tirechappe."

Claude was barely listening as the news still took a moment to sink into his mind.

_A second one?_ He thought. _Wasn't it unfortunate enough for _me_ to be born into this family? And now another?_

Nicolas continued, "So apart from all the time I have invested into being Minister of Justice, I want to be present for this child's life and watch it grow."

Claude cringed at the hypocrisy of his father's statement, fighting the urge to point it out.

_Of course, just like how you were ever-present in my upbringing. Another to suffer at the hands of this licentious old brute._

"When you return home later on, you should congratulate your mother," Nicolas said plainly, returning to his desk.

Distantly, Claude nodded and asked if there was anything else that needed to be discussed. After being told no, Claude quickly took his leave out of the Palace.

As he walked home, his head was raced with a million thoughts. First, there was disgust over the realization that his parents were still going at it, which made him gag a little. Then there was the quick sense of jealousy that his father seemed eager to be a good parent for this unborn child while his whole life, Claude received only negativity.

Sure enough, when he returned home and saw his mother sitting in a meditative state in the parlor room, Claude simply asked, "Is it true? That you are going to bear another child?"

Serenely, but still reserved, Jean-Marie answered, "Yes, Claude. Your father and I are going to welcome our second child, most likely by next spring."

Sitting beside her on the couch, Claude then said, "How you possibly stand to bear that man another one? Let alone so late in life?"

She held her son's hand. "He is my husband and it is a wife's duty to give him heirs. For years we had tried to have more children. When we realized that you were to be an only child, I blamed myself for the sins of your father as the reason to not being able to conceive again."

Claude looked disappointed and sympathetically at his mother, wondering if she was even really happy at being pregnant again.

"Please, Claude. Don't see this as some sort of punishment and mistake, but as a blessing that we will welcome another member into our family." Her light blue eyes pleaded for his support.

Tactlessly, he said, "I know that I would never wish for another soul to be born with that man as their father. But, if you truly are…_comfortable_ with this whole ordeal, then…congratulations, I suppose."

Accepting this unenthusiastic approval, Jean-Marie smiled and said, "I'm sure that you will learn to love this child, Claude."

"Perhaps."

_This child will only bring misery_, he stated internally. _The man who fathered it was not meant to procreate._

Inside, Claude wanted to only wish bad upon this child for its coming arrival, but then reminded himself of it not being very Christian to do such a thing. But the thought of his mother actually feeling at fault for his father's behavior sickened him, especially with the thought that she should be punished by the lacking of more children. Maybe she was happy at expecting again.

Still, there was something unnatural about this whole situation.

"Mother, allow me to say this," he said. "Based on _years' worth_ of observation, I know that the man will _not_ change his ways to be a better father towards this child. So I will take it upon myself to help guide it in the right direction of a virtuous and God-loving way of life."

Squeezing his hand tight, his mother in a heartfelt response softly said, "Thank you, my son. Despite your past sins, you have truly shown yourself to be a good, pious young man."

Years of mistakes that had constantly been thrown in his face were atoned upon hearing these words. Family had never meant much to him, but now he knew that would do everything in his power to be a good older brother.

How quickly his world was changing: his father stepping down as Minister, his mother expecting, and on top of that, at the pace he was going, Claude himself could be ordained as a minister by twenty and Minister of Justice in a few years.

_If Celeste was still here, all of this would be more bearable._

What were these strange, alien feelings building up inside him?

Staring out into the cold night, Claude remembered her loving embrace, how she would tenderly hold his hand, and of course, the kiss she bestowed upon him prior to leaving. How he missed all those affections. He had always admired that, even as children, Celeste stood her ground and stuck to her beliefs, ready to fight anyone who challenged her. His heart pounded furiously as he thought about how beautiful she was to him: her coal-black hair, shining brown eyes, soft bronze skin, and warm smile. Suddenly, he longed for all those things once again…and more. Claude missed his gypsy more than anything, praying for nothing but her company.

It was then that Claude Frollo realized the error of his ways.

_She said she loved you…and you rejected her. Fool! Ignorant, shallow, self-important fool!_ He berated himself as he squeezed his eyes shut and ran his thin hand through his hair.

Everything he could want in a person had been right in front of him this whole time.

_You had her, and you let her go like some cheap trinket! _

He knew it: Claude _did_ love her. He loved a gypsy girl and didn't care. And now she was gone and he felt more alone than ever. More importantly, she was gone without even knowing how he felt. Why couldn't he have realized these feelings when he had the chance?

***A/n: Frollo's going through a lot right now with all these strange feelings (Happy Valentine's Day, right?) and family stuff. What's Marcel up to? How will Frollo deal with such strange emotions?**

**Decided to bring back the song lyrics since I've seen other people do it. I'll go back and add more the other chapters. And I got more followers like Malakai-Macabre, author of one of my favorite Fresme stories, and her new student-teacher one is awesome!**

**Again, thanks to all those who read, especially Tinsy-girl who always reviews and sticks by this story!**


	23. Nightmares and Pipe Dreams

_The city was covered by a dark gray overcast. Claude saw her running down the cobblestone streets, skirt billowing behind her. He feels himself rush after her, but she sprints ahead. He hurries after her, but she is still much farther than him._

_She makes a sharp turn down an alleyway…he knows this alley._

_Where are you taking me, gypsy? He questions._

_Soon he finds her acrobatically climbing over every wall and jumping each ledge that crossed their path, never missing a beat. He struggles to keep up with her and she doesn't seem to be slowing down to wait for him either._

_She leads him to the city's gates and to the outskirts. She begins running down the familiar path, which is covered by a few trees._

_Claude knows where she is going, but still follows her, even as she heads for the clearing that appears in his view. He sees numerous caravans surrounding the place, but no one seems to be there._

_The gypsy camp? Why?_

_He sees her stop suddenly, not once turning around to look at him._

_He wants to go up and ask her what they're doing here, but he finds that he cannot move._

_He calls out for her, hoping to get some kind of response, but she doesn't even flinch._

_Suddenly sees a tall man approach her; he has a mass of black curls, a small beard, and flashing a cocky grin._

_He looks in horror as she places her arms around this man and kisses him deeply._

_Claude begs for it to cease, but he cannot turn away, even when the man shares her embrace and caresses her slowly._

_STOP!_

Claude's eyes shot open and he scanned the darkness of his room, relieved that the nightmare was over. He listened for a moment, taking in the comforting sound of silence.

Though still mostly asleep, he thumbed something away from his cheek. He was a little surprised that a tear had escaped during his slumber.

_Only a dream,_ he reminds himself. _Preposterous things to get worked up over._

With that in mind, he relaxed and eased himself back into sleep.

But the dreams did not stop there…

_Claude opened the heavy wooden doors of the cathedral, gazing at its enormous space. The inside of the church was empty, though he faintly heard the voices of monks' chanting echo a bit._

_He turned his attention towards the spiral staircase that led up to the bell tower, heading towards it for whatever reason._

_Climbing the stairs, Claude felt as though it went on forever. But why was even climbing them in the first place?_

_He finally made it to the rafters of the tower, the bells high above his head. He travels further, making his way up the wooden steps, higher and higher until he sees the dim sunlight, hidden by clouds, shining above Notre Dame. _

_When he reaches the top of the cathedral, Claude looks down and scans the city, but sees nothing of importance…until he looks to his side._

_He sees her leading against the stone parapet and gazing out to the horizon. Instinctively, he marches toward her._

_He doesn't even have to say anything for her to turn around to him and greet him with a loving smile._

"_I love you, Claude Frollo," she says softly. _

_Claude feels himself trembling before she takes his hand in hers. _

_His voice finally returning, he replies, "And I love you, Celeste."_

_Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pushes her lips to his, which he cannot pull away from. Claude shares in her embrace and pulls her closer to him, and deepening their kiss._

_After a while, she pulls away from him and says, "I want us to be together, Claude," before surrendering to his embrace and molding her lips to his thin ones._

_Claude's hands work their way up and down her back as she runs her fingers through his hair, never breaking their kiss._

_How he never wanted the moment to end…_

Claude suddenly awoke to the most unwelcome sensations: his face and body were covered in sweat and he felt a dampness under his sheets. He quickly swung himself out of bed and changed, the evidence on his clothes and sheets still mocking him.

He felt shameful over another one of these troublesome dreams, which had been going on for months now. Ever since he realized his true feelings for Celeste, he experienced more nocturnal emissions than he was comfortable with, no matter how much he prayed and attempted to suppress the thoughts that provoked them. They left him embarrassed and yearning for her more and more. Sleep, once a blissful escape from anxiety, had become another dreadful experience in his existence.

Claude opened the curtain a little and saw that the sun was bearing emerging.

_Best to start the day early,_ he thought to himself. _No good ever came from man's sloth._

Gathering his books he headed down the stairs to leave for the university.

Shortly after learning of his mother's pregnancy, Claude moved out from his family home into lodging in the Latin Quarter. Even though he promised to be a good older brother to his future sibling, he didn't want to be driven mad by living in the same home as a screaming infant, especially when studying. But he would still stop by the Frollo home in the Rue Tirechappe and visit his family.

His mother was nearing her due date and he was half-enthusiastic, half-dreading the child's arrival. He tried not to show so much scorn as he looked at the swell of her stomach, still unsure of how he felt about another Frollo being brought into the world.

However, when he wasn't worrying about that, he was suffering from heartache over his thoughts of Celeste.

The cool spring air did nothing to calm his nerves from the night's "accident," whose memory was still fresh in his mind.

He detested that such emotions still tormented him after all these months; then again, Claude was always one to hold onto the past as a method of strengthening his present mind. Still, he wished nothing more than for these feelings to be obliterated, or (by some miracle) for Celeste to return so that he may return her affections, declare his love, and ease these urges.

It was a good thing that a long, droning lecture would allow him to forget such desires.

* * *

Claude gazed up at the cathedral whose spires pointed upward at the orange sky. He knew he should be returning back to his quarters, but also felt obligated to engage in some impromptu prayers for his _less than chaste_ dreams.

Every time one of these dreams occurred, he guiltily returned to Notre Dame, keeping his head low as the eyes of saints and apostles bore into his skull as he made his way to the pews.

As he prayed, he pleaded that these dreams were not intentional and not his doing.

_Dear Lord, I have done nothing wrong! I did not instigate such sinful visions!_

He hoped that God would not hold him accountable for such thoughts running through his mind.

After he believed that he has done enough begging, Claude crossed himself and stood up to leave. Before he could open the doors, he was stopped by the Archdeacon's voice.

"Hello Claude!"

He turned to face the man. "Good evening, Father Augustin."

"I seldom ever see you at this time of day. Are you here for evening mass?"

"Not exactly. I needed to speak with the Lord in private, and what better place than in His house?"

The Archdeacon raised his eyebrows a little. "Is everything alright, Claude?"

The young man paused for a moment, trying to find the right words without lying. "Things are… adequate, I suppose."

"How are your parents then?"

"Well, my mother is about to give birth any day now. I haven't visited them for about two weeks now, but they seemed well last time I saw them."

"You should go and see them if that is the case. Just because they have another one on the way doesn't mean that they would not enjoy a visit from their firstborn. Besides, I am sure that they would love your company in such a time," Augustin explained.

"Perhaps I should go check on a mother's condition. No doubt that she is miserably anticipating labor any day now. Very well, Father, I will go and grace them with my presence," he replied with a smirk.

"That's very familial of you, Claude," he admired, patting the boy on the shoulder. "If you do happen to see your parents, please give them my regards."

"I will." That said, Claude pushed through the doors and started down the streets heading for the the Rue Tirechappe.

The city was much darker and Claude began to reconsider his decision of visiting so late. He became anxious and stayed alert, considering that he did not want to be robbed by another gypsy mongrel or beggar again.

He eased up when his family's home came into view; it was an elegant mansion, though not as spacious as their previous one. He walked up the door and knocked.

While he waited for it to be answered, he scanned around the neighborhood, still a little wary of anything that would seem out of place. All of a sudden, a bloodcurdling scream emitted from the second floor of the house and drew his eyes forward.

This kind of sound could only mean one thing: his mother was in labor.

_Oh good Lord,_ he dreaded. _Not right now…_

He thought for a moment. If he left now, nobody would ever know he was here.

Claude spun around and was about to take off when suddenly the door swung open and a pale servant girl bowed to him.

She looked shaken and agitated, but still greeted, "Master Claude? Please come in."

Hesitantly and with a racing heart, Claude entered the home and beheld the chaos that ensued: servants scattered about, rushing up and down the staircase with towels and basins; his mother's painful screeches echoing; and the frantic exchange of questions.

"Perhaps I should come back another time," he told the servant girl.

"Nonsense! Your parents wondered when you would be returning to see them. Lady Jean-Marie has been in labor since this afternoon and hoped that her son would turn up."

Another agonizing wail came from upstairs.

"However, by the sound of it, the child's arrival will still not be for some time."

Claude cringed at the awful sound and wanted only to be out of this place. All of this was beginning to feel like too much. Trying to stay out of the way, he sat down on a nearby couch and waited for something-_anything_ to happen.

He sat in silence and painfully listened to his mother's screams.

_This child is not even born yet and he's already causing nothing but grief, _he thought.

Anxiously he waited for it to be over and hoping that nothing went wrong during the delivery.

After about fifteen minutes, the sounds of pain ceased and a maid rushed downstairs appearing out of breath. Claude and the servants directed their attention towards her.

"It's a boy," she tiredly stated.

_A boy…_the thought resonating in his head.

Suddenly Claude felt a bit of sympathy for this child as he remembered his own upbringing and the treatment he endured. Every beating and scolding for not being "man enough" would repeat and be endured by this child.

"Master Claude," a maid's voice shaking him from these thoughts. "Would you like to see him?"

Exhaling as he was brought back to reality, he nonchalantly replied, "I suppose," as he stood up and followed her upstairs.

When he entered the birthing chamber, the first thing Claude saw was his mother with the newborn in her arms and his father sitting by her side and admiring his son.

Jean-Marie handed him over to Nicolas as she laid back, her blonde curls sticking to her face with sweat. She looked ahead at her older son with tired eyes and murmured, "Claude, come meet your brother."

Wearing a subtle frown, he trudged forward to where his father sat and laid eyes on the child in his arms.

All of a sudden, every bit of disdain and animosity melted away when Claude looked at his brother. This small bundle with light blonde hair and cherubic cheeks was the picture of innocence and he could not see an ounce of sin in this boy. For what wickedness could from a creature so pure?

Unknowingly, Claude's lips tugged to form a smile of adoration at his baby brother.

"Joannes Frollo de Tirechappe," Nicolas said, smiling fondly at the boy.

* * *

Claude found himself being a daily visitor to Tirechappe after his brother's birth, and so had many others. His parents' friends and their wives flocked to the Frollo mansion and gleamed at the infant. The men congratulated Nicolas and the women admired how beautiful their son was The boy eventually earned the nickname "Jehan."

"He's going to be quite a fighter!"

"He's an angel, he is!"

"He's adorable! I don't even remember Claude being such a delight when he was born."

"That boy was born with a frown on his face!"

Claude brushed off their swipes and comparisons because he was so enamored with the boy's charm.

_He will be the face of virtue and piety, one that will be admired by many_.

Claude picked up his brother from his cradle and held him in his arms.

"He's quite a looker, isn't he?" Nicolas remarked to Claude.

"He truly is a magnificent soul."

"I just hope he's got more backbone than you."

Claude tried to ignore the comment and focus on Jehan.

"I pray that he'll learn how to take charge and be a man; fight when he needs to, put a woman in her place, and never back down from danger! But of course, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Nicolas chided.

"Well, I suppose that comes from not having the most _respectable_ role models," Claude countered without even glancing at his father.

The older Frollo was taken aback and glared at Claude. "I beg your pardon? What was that?"

Claude squared his shoulders and held his brother closer. "Despite your promises of being an "admirable" father, I have my doubts that you will treat Jehan with any more compassion than you did for me. Given my upbringing, he will probably end up with my attitude and hopefully _not_ become the same immoral and over-indulged lecher as his father-_which would be quite an improvement!_"

His father's same gray eyes pierced Claude's with fury. "How dare you speak to me with such _insolence_, you ungrateful lout!" His voice rose threateningly as he began to ball his hand into a fist.

Claude's eyes were like daggers as he challenged him further, "If you wish to strike me down now, then go ahead. True, you can hurt me…but you will also be punishing Jehan."

Nicolas gawked at his son's words, still shaking with anger.

"So I ask you, _Father_," Claude's words filled with arrogance and venom. "Is it _really_ worth it?"

His father's breathing was ragged and his nostrils flared as his stared menacingly at the young man. Had it not been for the fear of hurting Jehan, Nicolas would have murdered Claude right then and there.

Jehan began to fuss, Claude instantly knowing that it was time to leave Nicolas stewing in his anger. With his back to his father, he wore a triumphant smirk at the realization that he had just challenged his father without having to suffer the repercussions.

As he headed downstairs to join the others, he quietly remarked to the child, "You're already showing to be _quite_ a valuable asset."

***a/n: The muse got me and had to get writing! Time to refer back to the book by bringing in the infamous Jehan Frollo. And the beginning with Frollo and his "vivid" dreams was fun to write.**

**Time to continue being traumatized by "Untold Stories of the ER" and later I might watch "Hunchback" for the millionth time.**

**Please R/R!**


	24. Thicker Than Water

"'_Hoc conperto episcopus sine spe restitutionis in eum sententiam dedit. Hic primum queritur, utrum clericus ante civilem iudicem sit producendus?'_"The speaker read aloud from the Decretals of Gratian as Claude scribbled down notes meticulously as he listened, not even noticing that his hand was cramping.

Many students had fallen asleep or stared blankly into space, but Claude kept his nose to the grindstone. It had been a busy week for him, what with longer lectures and more studying, and he hadn't even been able to visit his family in over than a week.

When reading over his notes, he would sometimes find his mind wandering off and thinking about little Jehan. Despite his lack of compassion for most human beings, he deeply cared for the well-being of his little brother and worried constantly about him. In matter of weeks, the church would be holding Jehan's christening, an event for which Claude and his mother were thrilled.

_Jehan will officially be a member of the church and washed of the Original Sin, both of mankind and of that insufferable debaucher that created him,_ he thought. _But what if Jehan is led astray by his father? Then he will never be a proper member of society or man of God. I must keep a sharp eye on him to ensure that that does not happen!_

He shook his head from these thoughts as he turned his attention back to his notes which rested on his lap as he sat on the steps of the school of Saint-Honoré.

"'_Væ vobis, o terrae et mari quia diabolus mittit bestia cum ira_,_'_"he recited as he read from his book.

"Claude!"

He looked up and saw a young man rushing towards him with a worried expression on his face, which was red and sweating from the summer heat.

"What is it?" Claude asked, annoyed at this disturbance.

"Did you hear about the spread of plague?"

"I heard tell of it infecting some in the Rue de Bernardins," Claude answered, confused at why the boy would suddenly such a question. "Why? Has such malady spread further?"

The student looked at Claude grimly. "I heard that it has reached Rue Tirechappe."

Claude felt a chill run through his body upon hearing this, his eyes widening in terror. He quickly gathered his book and parchment papers in his hands and sprung to his feet.

"Are you sure?" he asked his classmate.

"I heard that there have already been at least ten deaths nearby, and they said it was only a matter of time before such pestilence claimed more!"

"I must go!" he said shakily before rushing forward and heading towards the post where Damocles was tied to. Mounting the horse, he rushed off in the direction of his parents' home.

Onlookers cast him expressions of confusion, annoyance, and fear that he was a madman as he rushed through the crowds. But he didn't care; he could only think of his family and hoping that when he arrived they would not be among the afflicted citizens.

_Don't worry, they're probably fine, _he assured himself, blood pounding in his ears and heart racing from adrenaline and sheer panic. _You'll arrive and find that everyone is still alive and well…Mother, Father, Jehan-all of them are just fine. _

He galloped through the town and glanced at the cathedral, quickly pleading to God that his family would still be there. Crossing the Pont Notre Dame, he was so focused on his worry that he didn't even remember the brief wave of childhood memories that usually struck when he was here.

_What if I'm already too late?_ He thought grimly. _Jehan doesn't deserve such a fate; a soul so free of evil should not have to suffer like Job._

The closer they were getting to Rue Tirechappe, the more Claude felt a great pain in his chest as he imagined awful visions of plague victims and the ghastly remains they left behind.

Then he saw the family mansion come into view, which made his heart skip a beat. Dismounting and quickly tying up Damocles, he rushed forward and instantly knocked hard on the door.

His heartbeat sped up as he anxiously waited for an answer before knocking again, louder this time.

_Can't take this anymore! _He thought before grabbing the door handle and slamming against it to push it open, surprised that it was unlocked as he stumbled forward into the house. He looked around expecting one of his father's servants to enter and greet him, but received no such thing.

Claude listened for a voice of some sort, but heard nothing except for the sound of his own unsteady breathing.

"Mother?" he called out as he entered further into the house and looked around, not receiving a response. "Father?"

He grew more and more frantic as he snaked through the first floor and found absolutely nothing. The house looked as though it had been lifted of a few its contents, from bowls and dishes to some of the books that once rested on nearby bookshelves.

"Is _anyone_ here?!" he called.

_They couldn't have all just packed up and left, could they?_

Then another thought struck him. He spun on his heels and scrambled up the stairs, heading straight for his parents' room.

Clutching the handle, he swung the door open and threw himself inside, horrified by the sight he uncovered. "No…" he mumbled.

Nicolas and Jean-Marie lay in their bed, their bodies dark and lifeless with their arms covered in purple and black spots. The putrid stench of decay filled his nostrils as Claude wobbled back a little and slumped against the wall, the shock robbing him of his balance and making him sink to the floor.

"God, _why_?" he breathed out. He looked at his hands and found them trembling violently as the reality of the situation set in, filling his eyes with hot tears.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Claude was suddenly overcome with a storm of memories stemming back from as far back as he could remember…

_His first Communion and how his mother shed tears of joy at this rite of passage…_

_The first time his father brought him to a witch-burning when he was about eight, and how he watched with great attentiveness, even when screeches of pain filled his ears…_

_His mother teaching him to recite the most important prayers and telling him stories about various saints and biblical figures…_

_The various punishments he received from his father and his mother's comforting embrace when he was very young…_

A sudden cry broke him from these thoughts, his eyes narrowing forth to the cradle that sat at the foot of his parents' bed.

"Jehan…" he muttered as he shuffled towards the infant's spot. He looked down and saw the small blond child still swaddled and beginning to cry. Immediately, Claude took his brother in his arms and tried to calm him.

"Thank the good Lord that you are still here, my brother," he said as Jehan began to settle down.

_How could those leeches just abandon an innocent child? _He wondered angrily.

Claude knew that he had to get Jehan out of the house and to safety. Before exiting, he took one last look at his parents' remains and quietly said, "_Vade cum Deo, patre et matre._"

First, his best friend was gone, and now both of their parents…Jehan was now all that he had left.

Holding the child close, Claude instinctively led Damocles toward Notre Dame, unsure of where else to turn.

* * *

"Claude?" Father Augustin asked, surprised at the look of pain on the young man's face as he pushed forward into the church. "Is something wrong, my boy?"

The man could faintly see the tears on Claude's cheeks as he faced the Archdeacon, still holding the small bundle and his book close to his chest, as though afraid to let go of them.

"Father," Claude began. "They are gone…both of them."

Augustin was overcome with a grave expression. "Oh dear," he said stunned. "Come now. We will get everything sorted out."

He led the pair out of the nave of the church and far away to the kitchens of the church, handing Jehan off to one of the monks to be cleaned up and what not. Augustin sat the anxious Frollo down, who seemed hesitant to so quickly hand over his brother, and inquired what happened.

Claude went on to recount how he heard of the plague and how he found Jehan alone in the family's home. "Utterly pitiful," Claude lamented. "The boy is a mere two months old and is already orphaned; he is not even weaned from the breast."

"Do you have any family you can entrust your brother to, Claude?" the man asked.

"Unfortunately not, since none of them have proven to show any true care for either me or my brother. And I cannot just quit my studies when I am so close to being ordained as a minister, so I will have to place Jehan in another's care, perhaps a wet-nurse."

"A wet-nurse? Are you sure?"

The boy sighed. "Yes. Besides Tirechappe, I have inherited from my father the fief of Moulin, south in Gentilly; it is not far from the university and I believe Jehan will be just fine there."

"If that is your decision then, Claude, I suggest that you make the trip tomorrow, seeing as dusk is quickly approaching."

It was true: night was drawing near and Claude would not dare venture out with his young brother so late.

"I will," he stated. "Father, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to stay the night with Jehan. I cannot just leave him alone again so soon…not after what has happened."

The Archdeacon smiled at the boy's loyalty to his brother. "Of course, I understand. And Claude, another thing: we will have to make arrangements for your parents' burials."

He nodded in agreement before heading off to find his brother and get some sleep.

That night, Claude slept uneasily, constantly waking up and turning to see his infant brother still asleep in the cot beside him and breathing a sigh of relief. Each time he fell asleep, Claude could only picture his parents post mortem and Jehan crying out for someone to help him, which left him shaken and distressed.

He whispered to the sleeping baby, "Fear not, Jehan, for I will never desert you like they have."

* * *

After Claude handed Jehan over to the miller and his wife at the Moulin, he promised that he would visit the boy regularly. He felt a little guilty for having to return to his studies instead of being with his brother; however, he knew that he must ensure that Jehan was well taken care of while the elder worked towards a place in the ministry.

Claude held onto his brother for dear life during their parents' funeral procession. Dozens of aristocrats and public officials were in attendance to offer their condolences to the new head of the Frollo family. Claude was especially comforted by the presence of Hugo and Ingrid Lagarde.

"Remember, Claude," Hugo said. "Our home is always open to you _and_ Jehan."

"I'm sure that you will be a fine teacher to your brother," Ingrid assured sincerely, to which he nodded.

Though their words eased his grief a little, Claude stood in a trance-like state above his parents' gravesites in the Saint-Innocents cemetery, reciting every prayer he knew to alleviate the pain inside. After doing so, he carried Jehan away, but not before pointing out the tomb of Nicolas Flamel nearby.

"Never turn over an alchemist's tomb in an attempt to locate the philosopher's stone, Jehan," he joked, smiling a little as the boy cooed at his brother's words and attempted to grab at Claude's nose. He could only laugh forgivingly at Jehan's actions.

Jehan's christening was a much quieter event than the funeral: besides the brothers and the Archdeacon, only the Lagarde family and one of Jean-Marie's sisters attended the ceremony.

Claude felt the weight of the world on his shoulders as he handed his brother forward to Father Augustin and dipped him in holy water. But then he felt his heart swell with pride at seeing Jehan become a member of the church.

_Mother would delight in seeing her angel of a son become a child of God,_ he admired. How he and Jehan seemed to be so different: Jehan was a cherubic image of perfection and innocence complete with his blond curls and blue eyes, while his brother looked as though he had suffered atrocities tenfold, with steely gray eyes that were filled with remorse and whose signature scowl emphasized his stoic demeanor.

Somehow the small amount of time he spent with Jehan was healing the scars inside Claude.

_Still,_ he thought._ It would be much easier if she was here._

* * *

"Are you sure about this? I don't think he's going to take the news very well," René argued as the caravan exited out of another city on their journey.

"He's my friend and I need to tell him," Celeste said, taking in the surrounding area. "And I heard that Minister Frollo left, so we don't have to worry. I owe it to Claude to see him again."

"A person can change a lot in two years. Who knows what he's been up to?"

Celeste threw her brother a wry smile. "Believe me, Claude Frollo is many things: willful, headstrong, dedicated, passionate…but he's not _hateful_; a bit of a grudge-holder, but definitely not hateful."

"And what's if he's not thrilled about it?" he asked doubtfully.

"I can reason with him. I'm sure he'll understand."

* * *

Every week or so, during a window of free time, Claude would venture to the Gentilly on the southern side of Paris and visit the child. If he wasn't taking him to Sunday mass, then he was sitting with his brother on the hill where the Moulin rested and reading to him aloud from the Bible. Although when fall arrived, the miller allowed for Claude to read to Jehan near their fireplace to keep warm.

"'_Not many days later, the younger son gathered all he had and took a journey into a far country, and there he squandered his property in reckless living,'_" he read, but Jehan's attention was elsewhere from his brother's story. Claude didn't mind, assuring himself that teaching his brother the word of the Lord straight away was the first step in the direction of a pure Christian lifestyle. And besides, he genuinely enjoyed reading his brother such stories.

"'_And he said to him, 'Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found,'_" the elder finished. "Moral of the story, Jehan: one can turn his back on God and still be accepted after being lost. However, it would be best _not_ to indulge in such licentious behavior since He still promises to punish the wicked."

Little Jehan smiled and attempted to tug at his brother's hair. Gently pulling the tiny hand away from him, Claude then said, "And I believe that is enough storytelling for one day." He handed him back to the wet-nurse before turning away to retrieve his horse.

The cold air whipped against Claude's face and through his hair as he ventured back to the city, which was a calming atmosphere to help him think.

It had been months since their parents had passed, and although Jehan seemed to be happy, the wound was still fresh in Claude's mind. For years he had promised himself that he would _never _become guardian to a child, and he had been thrust into the very situation. Even though Jehan had the wet-nurse to look after him, Claude still felt empty without someone he loved to be by his side and watch his brother grow, whether it be his family…or something much deeper.

After the deaths of his parents, Claude only wished for Celeste to be there to comfort him through such a difficult time. Though much of his love was centered on the health and security of his brother, Claude could never shake the feeling of longing for her and the connection they had. Every day, kicking himself for having declined her proposal, but reminding himself that had he not, Jehan would truly be all alone.

At now nineteen years old, Claude Frollo already held a deep animosity towards the world and existence.

As he climbed the stairs to his dorm, he sighed at the anticipation of either a night of restless dreams or no sleep at all.

* * *

The next morning, Claude awoke with the sudden urge to visit Notre Dame; something in his mind saying that he needed to be there at once. Jumping out of bed, he dressed and made his way for the church.

As he crossed the Petit Pont towards the cathedral, he questioned such motives: _What could possibly be waiting at the church that needs such immediate attention? You are losing your mind, Claude._

He arrived at the square and looked around for anything out of the ordinary and first found nothing; only merchants and peddlers making their rounds and going about their business.

_Perhaps it is inside the church,_ he thought as he headed for the entrance, but was stopped by what he saw sitting on the steps.

Approaching the seated figure slowly with bated breath, he then said, "Celeste?"

She looked up from where she sat, smiled, and greeted, "It's been a while, Claude."

***A/n: We know in the book that Frollo was just a big softy with his little brother, and I can only imagine the devastation of finding him abandoned after their parents' deaths; he isn't completely devoid of compassion and love. But we're going to see soon how that changes. Speaking of which...Celeste has come back?! What news will she have to share with out valiant hero?**

**Btw: Tech week started Tuesday and rehearsals run late so I might have to get the next one out this weekend and might not be able to publish anything next week. (Got "The Telephone Hour" from BBB stuck in my head!)**

**The Bible story was from the Parable of the Prodigal Son**

**Latin translation: "This bishop, and perceived him without hope of return, in the opinion of gave. Here, for the first time is a problem, whether a clerk in front of the civil the judge is to be produced?"**

**Translation from the Book of Revelation: "Woe to you, O earth and sea, for the Devil sends the beast with wrath"**

**Latin R.I.P.: "Go with God, father and mother"**


	25. A Happy Reunion

Claude's jaw hung open as he laid eyes upon his friend; it had been so long since he had seen Celeste that her standing before him seemed completely unreal. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder just to see if this was just another dream, relieved to find that it was indeed reality.

Instantly he wrapped his arms around her tightly, a gesture which Celeste returned. When he let go, he grinned and then said, "You've returned from Bohemia?!"

"Yes, Claude, I'm back," she said beaming at her friend. "I can't tell you how great it is to see you again after so long. How long has it been anyway?"

"About two years. _Two years too long…_," he replied, lightly holding her hands. "And much has changed since our previous encounter."

"Such as?"

He looked back up at the towering cathedral and internally thanked God for sending his dear friend back to him.

"Follow me," Claude said as he made his way down the steps. "And I will tell you."

Claude led her away from Notre Dame and into the city as he recounted a few of his tales from the last two years.

"First of all," he began. "I am no longer my family's sole heir; I have a brother now."

"_A brother_?!" Celeste asked with great amazement and enthusiasm. "Congratulations, Claude! So what's his name, and how's your father treating him?"

"His name is Jehan, and, sadly, neither of our parents are around any longer," he said in a grave voice.

Celeste's smile disappeared. "My God…I'm so sorry, Claude."

"Thank you, but they are in the hands of the Lord now and it is my responsibility to ensure that Jehan is cared for."

"So where is your brother anyway?" she asked.

"At the Moulin in Gentilly," he explained. "He is in the care of a wet-nurse and I see him as often as time permits. Would you like to meet him?"

She smiled warmly at him. "Of course."

As he showed her the way to the Moulin, Claude proudly told Celeste about his little brother; the last few months he shared with his parents; and how he was about another year away from being ordained as a city minister.

"And what of you, Celeste?" he asked interestedly. "How have you spent the last two years?"

"Well, you know that after leaving France, my family and I headed straight for Bohemia," she explained. "It was a very beautiful country like here, just without the constant threat of someone like your father looming over us, no offense."

"None taken. I understand; he was a reprehensible man, _requiescat in pace_."

For a moment, she was a little surprised that he still had enough respect to bless his father even now. Nevertheless, she continued, "After we left, we headed south to Hungary for a couple of months, which wasn't as interesting as Bohemia. So after leaving, my family decided that we should make a stop in Paris."

"_A stop_?" Claude asked arching his eyebrow at this.

"I'll explain later," she replied vaguely.

"It's just up here," Claude pointed to a windmill sitting on top of a hill and motioned for Celeste to follow.

After knocking on the door, a pale and disgruntled looking woman answered, who Celeste assumed to be the wet-nurse. "So the ever-hardworking scholar Claude Frollo has decided to grace us with his presence _twice_ in one week?"

Claude forced a smile to the woman. "Charming as always, Lucile," he greeted sardonically. "I wish to see Jehan."

"Very well," she opened the door to allow the pair inside. "I see you've brought company to meet the little ruffian."

Claude smirked a little. "Indeed. Now, where is Jehan?"

The woman turned and left to another room, leaving Celeste to admire the cluttered house.

"So this is where you keep your brother?" she asked, noticing how the mill differed greatly from the precise and orderly residence that Claude had grown up in.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It wasn't as though I had many options: either keep Jehan here where he wouldn't be neglected; quit my studies and not take proper care of him; or place him in the foundlings' bed. You can see that it was not a difficult decision."

"Fair point," she said. "Still, aren't you worried that he might need to see his brother more often if you want him to be a good kid?"

He pondered this for a moment. "Believe me, Celeste, I think my brother is in able hands. Besides, with _me_ guiding him, I can surely turn him into a paradigm of virtue."

Hearing approaching footsteps, the two turned as saw Lucile the wet-nurse enter with baby Jehan, happy and smiling as always.

"Speaking of which," Claude said taking him into his arms. "We will be outside, thank you."

Lucile snorted at him and replied, "Maybe _you_ can get the little devil to calm down!" as they made their way outside.

"Celeste," Claude began. "Meet Jehan Frollo de Tirechappe."

Celeste ran her bronze fingers through the boy's perfect blond curls. "He's absolutely beautiful, Claude."

"Yes, he is; a little rowdy now and again, but still something to be cherished."

Celeste smiled greatly at the way Claude beamed in admiration for his brother. Rarely ever in their whole friendship had she seen him so content, even as Jehan grew fussy and attempted to wiggle out of his older brother's arms.

"Would you like to hold him?" Claude then asked.

Smiling, Celeste took Jehan into her lap and he instantly calmed down, much to Claude's astonishment.

"Odd," he remarked. "He usually will not allow anyone else but myself and his care-takers to hold him. Though I should say that I am not surprised since you do have a certain _enchantment_ to you, my dear."

"_Enchantment_?" she replied, giving him a wry smile in return. "You're not accusing me of witchcraft, are you?" she teased.

"Perish the thought; never would I dare accuse you of such malevolence. I simply admire how my brother has taken such a liking to you so quickly."

As he watched Celeste's interaction with Jehan, Claude's heart swelled at such a beautiful sight: his greatest friend and his family together in complete harmony was something he once thought impossible, and now fueled more ideas of what could be.

"So," Celeste began, breaking him from his daydreams. "Do you miss your parents much?"

Claude looked to the sky as though he was searching for an answer.

"My first concern is the well-being of my brother; that said, there was not much time for grieving over their passings. As I have stated previously: they are free of their suffering and are in the Lord's keep now."

Looking seriously at him now, Celeste then said, "But Claude, do you _miss_ them?"

He stopped and thought about it for a moment: no one had asked him such a thing even at the time of their deaths months ago. When it happened, all he concerned himself with was Jehan and arranging their funerals.

Did he miss them?

His father was the corrupt disciplinarian who took joy in the suffering of others, including his own son, while his mother was usually very passive towards him unless he had done something wrong.

He never disrespected them. _Honor thy father and mother,_ he thought. But miss them?

"No," he bluntly stated. "I do not miss them. I only wish they were still here solely for the sake of their younger son. But I suppose it was not a part of God's plan, instead taking it upon myself to care for him."

"I thought that family would have meant something more to you," Celeste replied.

"Trust me when I say that if family meant nothing to me, I would have left Jehan for dead."

"That's true," she agreed. "I'm proud of you for stepping up and taking initiative, Claude. And I'm sure your parents would be too."

He averted his gaze to the ground, not wanting to think about his deceased family. Though the pain was gone from their deaths and he was assured that Jehan was in good hands, he still knew that it was his burden to bear and constantly worried about his brother.

"Anyway," Claude said. "For what reason did you decide to only make "a stop" in Paris?"

She sighed wearily. "Now is not the time, Claude."

His lips curled into a frown at her answer. "Then when would be a more _appropriate_ time to discuss the subject?"

"I'll tell you _later_."

Claude rolled his eyes at her curt response, growing more anxious to know but at the same time a little nervous of what she might have to tell him.

_Enjoy the moment while you can,_ he told himself.

They sat together for a very time talking, sharing more stories from their time apart to reminiscing about the good old days. Soon, the hours had passed turning the day into dusk and Claude decided that it was time for him to retire back to his lodging after handing back to Jehan to the miller's wife.

"Where has your family taken up residency during your stay?" he asked Celeste as they made their way back towards the city.

"It's a small settlement just near the northern gates," she answered.

"If you would like, I could escort you."

"Don't worry, Claude; I don't need a chaperone," she assured, nudging him.

"Always the strong-willed and independent one, aren't we? But I feel as though I should come along with you."

"If you really want to, then be my guest," she replied, leading him forward.

While they trekked back into Paris, a strange silence formed between the two, as though both could sense that something was wrong.

It was then that Claude spoke up, "I just remembered that there is something back at my dormitory that needs my immediate attention. Would you mind accompanying me, Celeste?"

Celeste looked at him curiously and somewhat unsurely agreed to follow him back to the Latin Quarter. She knew that Claude had always been a bit of an enigma, but for some reason she was a little wary of what he needed to attend to back at his place.

"There it is," Claude pointed to a building littered with students hanging about. "Come on."

"Are you sure that such a _prestigious_ residence would allow a simple gypsy inside?" she joked.

"With the assortment of characters running amuck in this building, you are the equivalent of a saint in comparison," Claude said flashing her a charming smile.

"Then in that case, lead the way."

She trailed behind him through the crowded hallways of young drunk scholars talking and laughing before Claude stopped and unlocked the door to his room.

When she entered, Celeste noticed how greatly it resembled his bedroom from his parents' home years ago: a great wooden desk covered in parchment papers and books; his bed neat and made; and a single window covered by a dark curtain.

She continued to inspect the room while Claude lit a nearby candle to dispel the darkness.

"Alright, Claude," she said. "What was it that you needed to-"

Her question was cut off by the crushing of his lips into hers and the lock of his arms wrapping around her. Pulling away, he rested his head on her shoulder and heavily said, "I've missed you, Celeste. More than you can imagine." He held her tighter, savoring their closeness. She returned the gesture by placing her head on his chest and surrendering to his embrace.

After another moment of quiet contact, Claude pulled away and kissed her again before turning her around to place her down on his bed.

"Claude," she whispered. He looked down at her questioningly only for her to shake her head in response.

He positioned himself over her and Celeste pulled him back to her lips. She tugged at his shirt before pulling it off and flinging it away.

* * *

When early morning came, Celeste awoke to find her best friend still asleep. His pale body was sprawled over the bed with one arm lazily slung over her and his black hair was tousled messily.

Lightly removing herself from Claude's embrace, Celeste quickly and quietly gathered her clothes and dressed herself. She turned and saw a small piece of parchment paper, took a nearby quill, and scribbled something down before placing it on the floor near Claude's clothes.

Silently, she slipped out of the room and left.

***A/n: Finally back! Sorry, "Bye bye birdie" has been kicking my butt lately and I'm covered with bruises from moving set pieces. Still we've had some great performances and we're doing it again next weekend :D (actors embrace the light, techies embrace the darkness)**

**Frollo got laid! I needed to put that in and you'll see why later...**

**Anyway, I know this is a somewhat shorter chapter but trust me when I say next chapter is gonna have major feels :'( Jeez, it's hard to believe that this story is almost over. Still, the show must go on!**

**"Requiescat in pace" is Latin for "rest in peace" for anyone who never played Assassin's Creed**


	26. Claude and Celeste

When Claude woke up the next morning, it took him a few moments to recollect the events of the previous night; he grinned a little at the thought of last night's engagement. He had wanted Celeste for so long that he lingered in mental ecstasy over his masculine accomplishment.

Claude had completely ignored that fornication was a sin and how it had ruined him before. Though years ago he had condemned himself for engaging in it before marriage, this time it did not matter. The first time meant nothing, and now it meant so much more to have done it with someone that he truly loved. God sent her to him for a reason and now he lingered in absolute happiness.

_She is yours,_ he thought proudly.

Blinking his eyes open, he then he realized that he was alone, naked in his room with Celeste gone. He looked around and noticed a piece of paper on the floor next to the bed. He picked it up and recognized the handwriting.

_Claude, bridge. We need to talk._

He felt a knot in his stomach as he got up and began to dress. Before heading out, he rummaged through a drawer from his desk and pocketed a small piece of cloth.

Making his way there, his heart beat furiously as a million thoughts collided against each other in his head. Questions of what was going to happen; memories of last night; and conflicting feelings of glee and fear over the fate of their friendship.

Claude arrived at the Pont Notre Dame…_their_ bridge, which had become symbolic of their relationship. This is where they became friends; ever since they sat under it while Celeste cleaned his wounds and stitched up his shirt. For almost ten years, the two had spent many a day at this bridge, talking, laughing, and enjoying each other's company.

He saw her waiting, deep in thought and staring down at the Seine.

"Celeste!" he called as he approached her.

Celeste looked at him remorsefully. "Claude, there's something I need to talk to you about," She said.

"And I have something to discuss with you as well, my dear," Leaning against the bridge, he gazed up at the bright blue sky. "You see, Celeste, I experienced a great realization when my parents died. Entering that house, seeing them both gone, finding my little brother abandoned…it makes a man think about what is truly important in life…"

Celeste looked at him with an unsure expression, as though reluctant to hear him finish his story.

"I thought that education and knowledge were the only things in life worth living for, and to use them to gain more status. But with this experience, I realized something…" Claude inched closer to Celeste, his hand upon hers. "What would be the point in achieving such great levels, if you have no one to share them with?"

Celeste glanced down at his hand, which was wrapping around hers. "Claude, what are you-"

Claude pushed his lips to hers, pressing himself closer to her, Celeste pulling away after a few seconds.

"I love you, Celeste. That's why I have to ask you something," he said, his heart beating faster and even more violently in his chest. Claude reached into his pocket and pulled out the small cloth, which he unwrapped to reveal a red diamond-shaped ring. He placed it in the palm of his hand and held it towards her. "Will you marry me?"

Celeste stood agape at his declaration of sentiment, uncertainty in her bright brown eyes. At a loss for words, she could only manage to squeak out, "Claude…I …I'm…"

"Please, Celeste," his slate-gray eyes filled with sincerity. "You've been my greatest friend since we were ten, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

He had known for the longest time the consequences if they should marry: there would be no gain in social status, he would be frowned upon by his peers for marrying a gypsy from the streets, and any children produced in such a union would be considered dirty pagans.

But he didn't care because he would be happy to be with her.

Celeste took his hand and closed his thin fingers over the ring, the smile on his face disappearing.

"Claude…I can't," she said, her voice giving away the sadness in this statement.

For a moment he just stared at her. "Why not?" Claude asked, shocked at her response.

"That's what I wanted to talk to about…I'm betrothed."

Claude's eyes widened in horror at this confession; his entire world began to crumble at hearing this. He shakily backed up a couple of steps, the perplexity of this information robbing him of his balance.

The only response he could muster was a heavy "What?" burying the ring back in his pocket.

_Betrothed…_the word echoed in his head, mercilessly taunting him.

He could only hold onto one last bit of hope: _Please don't be the one person it shouldn't be…_

"Marcel and I are going to be married, and then we're going to leave for Spain," she said.

Just like that, Claude felt his chest tighten at this news. If it were physically possible for a heart to break over something this tragic, his would be in a million pieces.

_Oh Lord, please, no! _He thought.

"_Marcel_? Of all people? Why?!" he demanded, the anguish in his voice growing.

"Claude," she said calmly. "When I said that I loved you, you told me that you weren't interested in any romance, and that your priorities were with your studies and family. I couldn't just wait around hoping that you would return that affection someday. Marcel was there for me and I moved on. I thought you would too."

The very thought of Marcel winning Celeste's love sickened Claude to his very core. His mind was racing with a new thoughts filled with even more conflicting emotions.

He didn't know if he should be happy that his dearest friend was going to be married, or be furious with himself for not realizing his true feelings before.

Right now, all he could feel was resentment towards Celeste for choosing someone as dim-witted as Marcel instead of him.

Then another realization struck him: he had slept with an engaged woman, and she said nothing…_she_ _gave in!_

"What about last night?" he asked bitterly, looking away from her.

Celeste sighed. "What happened last night shouldn't have happened. Things got out of hand and we both had a moment of weakness."

'_Weakness"…_the word ridiculing him inside. _This is what happens when you allow such human emotions to obscure your better judgment…_

"Claude," she said, bringing him back to this cold reality. "Please don't let this ruin our friendship. You know you're my best friend, and I don't want to lose you." She tried to reassure him, reaching out to touch his shoulder, only for him to pull away from her quickly.

Leaning against the parapet, Claude stared down at the flowing river, unsure of what to do. Every emotion ran through his head, clouding his logic and sense. Anything that would have prevented his next statement:

"No."

Celeste looked at him confused. "What do you mean 'no'?" she asked.

"_No_, as in I refuse to continue a friendship with someone who toys with a man like you have, you heartless wench!" Claude gritted his teeth and glared at her with fierce intensity, causing her to back away from him a little.

"Claude, you can't really mean-"

"You harpy witch! I gave myself up to you! I might have put my soul in danger for you, and _this_ is how you repay me, you filthy harlot?!"

Celeste returned his glare, disgusted at every insult he threw at her.

"You are nothing but a wicked temptress sent by the Devil himself to lead me down the path of sin! How could I have been so blind?" He fumed.

Keeping a placid demeanor, Celeste tried to reason with him. "Claude…stop and think about what you are saying and try to calm down."

"Damn you!" he hissed angrily, gripping the stone ledge. "Do _not_ tantalize me! I refuse to allow you to make a mockery of me after I have suffered for you so many times over. Evil witch, I wish to _never_ to see or speak to you again!"

Her expression changed from one of bewilderment to one of hurt. Angrily, she replied, "Fine, Claude. If this is how you want to end it, then go ahead! I wanted to keep you as my friend, but you are just as hateful as the rest of them. You are _exactly_ like your father. I thought there was something different about you, but you're no better." She turned and walked away without looking back.

Narrowing his eyes at the retreating gypsy, Claude shouted one last thing to her: "Go to Hell!"

His body shook furiously as he left, his breathing increasing rapidly, the anger overwhelming in the young man. He hadn't even noticed the single tear running down his cheek.

Claude turned and left, completely oblivious to where he was going, but just needing to get away. He walked aimlessly through the streets pf Paris constantly plagued by troublesome thoughts and revisiting the last moments of their friendship.

His musing interrupted when a gypsy beggar on a crutch approached the young man.

"Could you spare something for the poor, sir?"

Claude stopped and stared at this man and then he remembered all those times that Celeste showed him some of the tricks that the gypsies used to fake their ailments and injuries in order to panhandle more successfully. And he would not be bought so easily.

_Another deceitful wretch,_ he thought to himself.

"Please sir?" the man asked again.

"Heathen leech, I will not give you _anything_!" he expressed with hatred before shoving the man out of his way.

The last thing he wanted to do was put up with another one of _their_ kind.

_Hurt, betrayed by some gypsy whore,_ he thought to himself. He should have known this would happen. _They are creatures who cannot feel human emotions. Like love…_

He desperately just wanted to forget about what just happened. _Anything…_

Claude decided just to return to his dormitory and try to ignore his troubling thoughts with his studies. However, his journey was stopped suddenly when his eyes rested upon a dirty looking building.

_La Falourdel's_. One of Paris's most beloved taverns; Nicolas Frollo had been a regular there years ago.

_How so much has changed…_

Without another thought, Claude strode through the door, sat himself at an empty table, and ordered a much needed bottle of wine.

* * *

_To think you wasted almost a decade frolicking with that succubus, _the young man scolded himself as he took another swig from the bottle. Claude didn't know how long he had been at La Falourdel's, but with all that he had tonight, time seemed to slip away. If any of his fellow patrons attempted to make drunken conversation, he would sourly tell them to leave him alone.

_It's a shame there isn't enough drink in the world to erase the last nine years from memory…_

Claude's head was spinning and he decided that maybe it was time to return home to rest for the night. He stumbled a bit on the way out, but gathered himself enough to walk out into the streets.

"Hey there, handsome!" called a female voice.

He turned his head and saw a young woman advancing towards him. Her bodice cut short to reveal more cleavage than he was comfortable with.

"You look like you've had a hard day. Need some company tonight?"

_Don't do it, Claude, _he thought_. Remember who you are._

"Get away from me, filthy tramp!" he screamed. "I will not give you the satisfaction of making _me_ look like a fool!" He walked away, unbalanced yet still trying to show some dignity.

Taken aback, the woman shouted, "Rude bastard!"

The whole journey back, Claude was revisited by endless flashbacks of Celeste, each memory more painful than the last.

He was relieved when he finally found his way to back to the lodging and shakily made his way upstairs to his room where just a day ago he had lost himself to the sins of flesh.

Claude slumped down on the bed, his head swimming in alcohol and shame. He retrieved the cloth from his pocket and examined the red ring in his fingertips.

He rose to his feet and pushed open the small window. Looking down, he knew if he chucked it now, he was sure to never see it again. Raising his hand, he took aim at some bushes that were barely visible in the shadows of a building.

_Just be rid of it already!_

But he couldn't…

Something was keeping him from letting go.

Claude retreated back to his bed and leered at the ring.

He didn't know what possessed him to, but for some reason he slipped it onto his right ring finger. He felt that it showed status…power. And nobody would have to know the truth behind the ring's intended purpose.

_Nemo me impune lacessit…_

Despite that he had drowned most of his feelings in wine, something surged in him…some sort of clarity that gave him reason for everything that had happened:

_Gypsies…All of them…the same: Liars, thieves, disloyal, treacherous sinners- All of them! She was just like the rest of her disgusting kind!_

Claude felt as though the clouds had lifted and he had received a message from the Almighty Himself. It was like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders.

_I know what I must do, _he thought. _I must cleanse the Lord's world of such vile creatures. Heathen undesirables like them must be expelled from society…_

_And I will start with the city of Paris herself. _

With that, Claude fell into a much-needed slumber, his mission set in mind.

***A/n: So now we know why Frollo hates gypsies...And that he doesn't take rejection well.**

**What's a story without an epilogue? So we'll be seeing how this whole ordeal affected the two friends.**

**"Nemo me impune lacessit": nobody attacks me without punishment.**


	27. Epilogue: The Memory Remains

**Months later…**

Claude worked his way through the rankings, easily reaching his goal at the age of twenty and becoming one of the youngest ministers in the city's history and was well-regarded among his fellow officials. Each day, he developed more and more of a self-righteous attitude which did not go unnoticed.

He looked on with disgust whenever he witnessed a gypsy brought to the Palace of Justice, openly condemning them to his fellow magistrates that they were liable for the declining quality of Paris. With any luck, Claude hoped that his associates would adopt his views and further weaken their status in the city. The young man began to crave for the power to be able to wipe them all out himself.

Claude would remind himself of each wrongdoing that he ever experienced at the hands of a gypsy, fueling his hatred for them; his mistake of the infamous one-night stand driving him to swear an oath of celibacy as well.

He, along with many others, began to see the resemblance to his father, the former Minister of Justice. But now at this age, Claude could only think that every bit of anguish inflicted upon the gypsies became justified in his mind, and how he only wanted to see them suffer even more.

_All of them…_

* * *

Celeste held her newborn son in her arms. Though the birth was agonizingly painful, she knew it was worth it when she saw how beautiful the child was.

Marcel stared at the two, enchanted. She asked him, "Do you want to hold him?" to which he lit up and happily offered his arms to take the little bundle. Looking down, he cooed at his son in adoration.

"What should call him?" he asked Celeste. She was surprised that he was giving her full freedom to name their child. Out of the many she had previously considered, she picked her favorite: "Sebastien."

* * *

As the months passed, Celeste and Marcel delighted in seeing their son grow. They watched as his features became more prominent over time.

Like any other gypsy, Sebastien's hair was black as ebony, although they were surprised that he didn't inherit Marcel's unruly curls. His eyes also turned into a smoky gray color, unlike his parents and their brown eyes. His lips became thin and distinct, another trait that neither of them possessed. The boy's skin was tan, not a dark bronze like other gypsies, but much lighter. However, most of the caravan had the good grace not to ask Celeste about this.

Marcel was so enamored by fatherhood that he never questioned the boy's appearance (or paternity), even when the adoring group of gypsy children would wonder out loud why Sebastien looked so different.

Celeste and René sat on the steps of the caravan watching Marcel happily play with his son.

"He loves that kid, doesn't he?" René casually asked, Celeste nodding her head in agreement.

From afar, the siblings could hear one of the children ask Marcel, "Why doesn't he have brown eyes like you or Celeste?" He shrugged at the question, his attention fully on his giggling baby boy.

René turned to his sister. In a hushed voice, he said, "Marcel isn't Sebastien's father, is he?"

She couldn't lie to her brother; looking at the ground, she slowly shook her head in response.

Taking a deep breath, René then asked, "Was it…_you-know-who_?" Celeste couldn't stand the sound of his name now, let alone say it without venom in her voice.

She looked at him regretfully, and sadly nodded her head. René was not the least bit surprised, judging by his nephew's alikeness to a certain someone.

"Does he know about it?"

"No," she replied. "He was gone before I found out. I thought it could be Marcel's, but when Sebastien was born, there was no doubt who his father was."

"Does Marcel know?"

Celeste thought about it: Marcel might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he was bound to notice that their son resembled his old enemy.

"I don't think I have to tell him," she stated. "I'm pretty sure he can figure it out."

"And if he asks?" René inquired.

Celeste looked at her brother with seriousness. "René," she said sternly. "Marcel may not have fathered Sebastien, but that's _his_ son. I never want Sebastien to meet his real father, and that's why I will _never_ go back to Paris."

* * *

**Many years later…**

The entire city of Paris was in attendance to the inauguration ceremony of the new Minister of Justice, Claude Frollo. He had made sure that his reputation for ruthlessness and zero tolerance of crime compared to his predecessor was well known before he had even taken office, which included creating his own personal army (reminiscent of his father) to enforce the law.

The man was barely into his early thirties and he already had the disposition of someone decades older. His hair was already faded of its black pigment and was now slate-gray like his cold eyes. He was noted for a heavily-cynical attitude complimented with a short temper, which was found to be especially intimidating with his deep, powerful voice. When his dark, thin lips twisted into a smile, it was usually at another's expense and full of mockery.

Judge Frollo's first order of business: to ban any sort of "nonsense", such as music, dancing, and any other sort of entertainment. He declared that it was to blame for turning hard working people to nothing but slothful wretches. Plus…it would further undermine the gypsies and their livelihood.

_Killing two birds with one stone, _he thought to himself smugly. Once that task was completed, he could work towards his goal of uncovering the legendary Court of Miracles that he had heard of so many years ago. He would love nothing more than to burn it until it lay in ashen ruin.

How he could not stand their kind; to him, it was their doing that had corrupted Paris for so many years.

And it was _her_ that casted a spell over his beloved brother Jehan; _she_ cursed him to become an uncontrollable, freeloading lout with absolutely no regard for the kindness that his elder brother bestowed on him. Whenever he chided Jehan for his behavior, the latter would always reply, "I know, brother, but it is the witch's fault that I was led astray!" before charming Claude into giving him more money to squander on gambling and alcohol. This only increased Frollo's animosity for them even more.

However, some force came over the Minister that made him show some clemency towards the gypsies.

"I will allow but one exception to the law. The Festival of Fools may still be held but once a year, as before," he declared to his distraught subjects. "However, my troops and I will preside over the day's events- just to make sure that everything stays under control."

When he noticed that the gypsies were not in attendance at the ceremony, Frollo announced that he would order his soldiers to hunt and arrest each and every one of them. "It's time to rid ourselves of them and the vile practices they have brought to our beloved city!"

The citizens cowered in fear of their new judge's merciless persona, which he relished in.

_As the most powerful man in the city_, he thought, _I will do everything in my power to exterminate such reprehensible creatures from the face of Paris._

* * *

**Many more years later…**

"Send in the next one," the Minister ordered monotonously. He tiredly scanned through more paperwork at his judicial bench in the Palace of Justice's courtroom, running his pale hand through his thinning gray hair as he ached for the end of a long day. "Name?" he asked when he heard the door open and the prisoner shuffle in.

"Sebastien," he answered, looking down at his shackles.

"Crime?"

"Theft_._"

"_And?_" Frollo asked in a mocking tone, still focused on his paperwork.

He sighed. "Illegal entry into Paris."

"From where?"

"Spain."

Though he really did not care, Frollo was obligated to hear the prisoner's reasoning behind the crime for official purposes. "And why are you here in my city without documentation?"

"Forgive me, _Minister_," Sebastien said with forced respect. "It's just that I have been forbidden from ever visiting the city for so long that I needed to see it for myself."

"'_Forbidden_'?" the judge asked sardonically, glancing up at the man before him…a gypsy.

"Yes, forbidden. Mother never wanted me to come here, but I couldn't resist the temptation any longer," Sebastien nonchalantly explained.

Frollo scoffed at the prisoner's tale and returned to his paperwork, internally finding it humorous that this poor soul stumbled into his trap. Sob-story or not, there would be punishment for breaking the law.

Frollo's dark circled eyes looked up again at the prisoner and studied him closely.

"Hmm," he began. This man seemed to be in his early thirties and obviously a gypsy by his clothing and dark skin, yet it was much fairer than an average one. With piercing gray eyes, raised cheekbones, and thin lips, there was something strange about this man.

"We don't see many of your kind," Frollo remarked.

"'_My kind_'_,_ Your Honor?" the man asked, a bit confused.

The judge's voice was filled with disgust when he disdainfully answered, "_Half-breeds,_" glaring at the man. "Let me guess: mother was defiled by some gypsy cur and abandoned?"

He stared hatefully at Frollo. "Quite the contrary, Minister: gypsy mother, white father. However, I was raised solely by gypsies and didn't learn of my true father until a few years ago when my adoptive one died."

Frollo again did not care to hear the man's life story and continued his taunting, "Nevertheless, good followers of the Lord should _not_ procreate with such a heathen group; mixing blood between races…it's simply repulsive." He scribbled something down on the document before him.

"Permit me, Your Honor," Sebastien said. "But mixing between races is not illegal, is it?"

Narrowing his eyes at the man, Frollo wrote one last thing down before contemptuously stating, "I pity the poor man who sired such an _insolent wretch_." A fleeting moment of relief passing through that made him grateful that his own adopted son had been isolated in the church's bell tower for twenty years.

"Then I am fortunate enough _not_ to know the identity of my true father," the man retorted, his lips curling into a familiar looking smirk.

Frollo gritted his teeth at Sebastien's ill-mannered response. "The punishment for theft is a day of public humiliation in the stocks. But since you are feeling so bold _and_ for illegally entering the city, I suppose a month in the dungeons before settling on a fitting sentence would be the most appropriate decision."

He summoned the guards and ordered them to escort the prisoner, whose eyes were like daggers shot at the judge. Though it wasn't the first time a criminal gave him a scornful look, there was something unsettling about the man he just sent away. But with so many other things to worry about, Frollo quickly shook off the feeling and returned to his work.

_Impertinent mongrel,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

At the Palace of Justice, Claude Frollo watches from his bedroom window as fire and black smoke fill the night, turning the sky hellish red.

Is all this trouble he has gone to for one gypsy worth it? _It will be._

Does he regret being the cause of such inhumanity? _Not one bit._

All the lives who have suffered because of his conquest were simply collateral damage.

_She cannot hide forever,_ he thinks to himself. _I can draw her out, or she will give herself up. One way or another, she will be mine._

The Minister of Justice is a patient man, and he can wait. But he doesn't want to…

He looks down at the two rings that adorn his right hand. The blue sapphire one on his index finger was a gift that a family friend had given him when he was first ordained as a minister well over thirty years ago. The red diamond-shaped one, however, is a constant reminder of what he had lost: the closest friend he's ever had…someone who he cared for more than anybody else in the world. He toys with the jewel sometimes in deep contemplation or, in recent events, emotional turmoil.

He would find himself thinking of her from time to time, only to berate himself over these memories and quickly remind himself of the pain he experienced. For years, he had promised himself that he would never again fall victim to the enchantment of another woman. He never wanted to relive such heartache for as long as he lived, especially not for another one of her kind.

But now…

The gypsy girl had bewitched him at this year's Festival of Fools. She was just like _her_: the energy, the spirit…the beauty. He obsessed over her, dreamed of her…_needed_ her. And he would not let her get away so easily.

_Not again,_ he thinks.

His face grows hot just thinking of her name: _Esmeralda_… one that holds just as much mystique and allure, as well as dripping with delectable sin.

When he finally captures her, he will take precautions- _No_… he will go to the ends of the earth to make sure that she _never_ gets away from him.

He promises to himself to treasure every moment of her presence, never take her for granted, and treat her like a goddess.

What if she refuses him?

_You can make a person love you, can't you?_ As he was once told.

Would she ever accept him?

_Only time will tell._

For years, he had drilled the idea that they were not capable of real love into the head of his hunchbacked ward, who was ironically born of gypsy blood. In the judge's mind, he knows that it isn't true.

Does he love her?

"_Love"…a term so carelessly thrown around that its meaning has deteriorated._

But one thing he does know: he wants her. He wants her more than anything, and he will stop at nothing to satisfy these desires.

He takes a deep breath and turns away from the sight, venturing back to his bed. Resting his head on the pillow he stares blankly at the ceiling. All these tormenting thoughts had deprived him of proper sleep the past few days, but he closes his tired eyes and tries to relax.

The notion of what he's doing to find this girl actually weighs down on him for a moment and a twinge of guilt passes through him before quickly dying.

But then the remorse which has afflicted him for decades again rears its ugly head…

_Celeste_, he thinks. _What might have been had things been different…_

After all these years, he can only hope that, wherever she is, she has forgiven him.

Under that cold, stoic, and merciless demeanor, Judge Claude Frollo has a heart.

It's just been broken for years…

***A/n: It's done...It took me three months but I finally finished this story that needed to be done (with post-musical melancholia).**

**I thank you all for your support of "Little Boy Frollo" and hope that you enjoyed this chapter as well. I'll see if I can write anymore stories in the future for those who are interested.**

**TWIST! Yes, I made it that Frollo unknowingly fathered an illegitimate gypsy child because I thought it seemed fitting since there is always a price to pay for our lack of judgment (no hate). Call it poetic justice. I had to go back to the story "Frollo Meets His Match" for the scene of his inauguration. I always rounded Frollo's age during the movie to be 54-55, 34 at the time he became Minister of Justice.**


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